


Flimflammer

by BrickSheep, Sammie3751



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Familial Bonds, Fix-It, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kleptomania, Minor Original Character(s), No Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrickSheep/pseuds/BrickSheep, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammie3751/pseuds/Sammie3751
Summary: Brok was multiple things. A conman, a kleptomaniac, a master of disguise, and a liar. He knew he wasn't a good person. That's why he can't understand how all of the pirates underneath Whitebeard seemed to think otherwise.





	1. Chapter 1

It's a chilly day for the citizens of the marine-infested port town called Sandy Blossom.

The sea breeze that traveled through the port town shows no mercy for neither the sailors who wore their caps too loosely or for the middle-class women who had decided to wear dresses that day. The breeze does nothing to deter one boy, however, who stands amongst a busy street with no concern for his own welfare. He shifts side to side impatiently while his shoes crack against the rocks and pebbles below him. His eyes scan the people surging past him, like two big factory lines at either of his sides. They all had their destination. _In…_ or _out_.

One pseudo line continued further into the town where it encountered hundreds of market stalls aimed at the average seafaring man. The other pointed to an exit where one could return to a large huddle of docked ships and prepare for a long voyage at sea. The perfect spot, he decides, is right where these two opposing paths meet. With a flourish, he starts his demonstration.

“Say goodbye to damaged skin, and hello to silky smooth skin with the miracle of _Hellburn’s sunscreen_! No longer will you have to suffer the sun’s harmful rays! At the small price of only 20,000 beri, this wondrous concoction can be yours!”

Brok is the name that had been given to him at birth, and a lot of the local residents were familiar with his antics. He would usually pull himself out in the middle of the day when the port was at its busiest, and then he would go on about strange products of his own poor design. He was hardly successful in his attempts to make a business which was evident by his numerous failures for the long month that he’s been stuck in Sandy Blossom. Sometimes a pitiful soul would come around to buy, but their kindness would quickly be driven away by a large, unpayable, price on Brok’s ridiculous items.

“Jackson’s at it again,” comes the hoarse voice of a pale woman, stopping temporarily to observe Brok. The man next to her, another local resident with a head of black hair, scoffs in his distaste.

He says, “He hasn’t sold a single item while he’s been here. You’d think he’d learn by now!”

Brok, overhearing this, stops in his scripted ranting. He shouts out, “Ah! Carla! Would you like to try some of my newly-introduced _Hellburn Sunscreen!?_ ”

The pale woman frowns, wrinkles lining her forehead, as she gives a hardy, “No! You shouldn’t be selling that stuff outside the marketplace anyway. You know the law!”

“Who’s going to stop me?” Brok laughs.

Carla narrows her eyes and then looks over to a group of patrolmen that were currently checking through a suspicious man’s suitcase. Brok follows the woman’s steely gaze only to land on the same sight. Brok puts on an act of gulping down a mouthful of air while pulling at the collar of his trench coat nervously. “C’ mon, Carla,” he begs, an unnatural smile tugging at his lips, “Aren’t we friends?”

Carla doesn’t bother to answer him. She waves one hand in the air, her mouth opening to call the marines out, and Brok doesn’t stick around to see what she’s going to do next. He quickly tucks the sunscreen bottle into the flap of his trench coat and kicks up the gravel underneath his feet in what can only be explained as a quick escape. Carla’s voice becomes background noise as Brok narrows his hearing on the heavy sound of boots following after his trail.

“She just had to point me out,” Brok mutters to himself, glancing over his shoulder to see three marines at his heels. Brok knew that the lower marines didn’t have the experience to actually put up a fight, so he was confident in his chances of getting them off his back. It’d be a disaster if they did, _somehow,_ manage to subdue him. Certain people would put him through another five months of hell if they heard about a failed attempt of escaping a bunch of lackeys. He’d rather that not happen. Fortunately, he had years of escaping experience to draw from. This would be a breeze. He’s gotten away from _far_ more dangerous situations.

Brok turns sharply around a corner. He turns another corner again, escaping a narrow alleyway, and arrives into a large area filled with stalls and booths of all kind. He dashes through several stalls, bumping into multiple people before he enters into yet another narrow alleyway. He immediately comes to face an obstacle he must jump over: a homeless man sleeping with only a worn blanket to cover him from the weather’s mood swings. He’s vaguely aware of the old man’s yelp once Brok lands on the other side, his heel barely scraping against the man’s nose, but he continues onward with no particular destination in sight. All he wants to do is lose the marines.

Brok leaves the alleyway, rounds the corner again...

“Umph!”

He had accidentally tackled someone in his escape. The force of the tackle causes him to fall backward onto the ground as the man he had bumped into took a few steps forward in surprise.

“What was that?” The man asks. The man scratches the back of his head before turning to look at Brok’s form on the ground. The man blinks once, twice, and then he glances over at his companion who had turned to see the cause of the noise, too. “Did you see what happened, Marco?”

“He bumped into you,” Marco states the obvious.

“Ha?? I got that part!” His companion tells him.

Marco gives his friend a lopsided smile. He then shrugs his shoulders, saying, “I know as much as you do, yoi.”

Brok takes this time, while the two converse with each other, to get a good look at the two people in front of him. The guy called Marco, Brok picked up, was a man with a yellow tuft of hair atop his head. The shirt he wore did nothing to cover his chest, and that was when Brok’s eyes came upon the man’s tattoo. _The Whitebeard Pirates._ Marco had a simplified version of Whitebeard’s defining illustration proudly displayed on his chest. If one were not to understand the symbol on Marco’s chest, a feature that showed that he was apart of Whitebeard’s crew, then one could come to recognize him differently. _His bounty_. Marco ‘The Pheonix’ was a wanted man with a hefty price on his head.

The man next to Marco wasn’t a mysterious stranger. Brok immediately comes to recognize him as Thatch, another one of Whitebeard’s commanders, with another large bounty. He had a curving scar on one of his temples, a black beard, and a white outfit similar to the one on his wanted poster. It just so happened that Brok was the unlucky fool who bumped into this man. Regardless, knowing they were apart of the Whitebeard Pirates, Brok felt as if these two men were walking piggy banks ready to be hammered in. Whitebeard was a wealthy pirate. Surely his so-called _sons_ were the same?

Brok jumps up to his feet.

“You!” He points at Thatch.

Thatch points at himself, “Me?”

“Yeah! You look like you get sunburns all the time!” Brok tells him. He quickly fwips out Hellburn’s Sunscreen and gestures to it wildly with a beaming, merchant, grin. “It looks like you need some of _Hellburn’s Sunscreen_! It protects your skin from the sun’s harmful rays!”

“Ah!?” Thatch’s words stumble out, sounding hooked already.

“Here, why don’t you try some?” Brok offers, flipping the sunscreen bottle upside down. He holds it out eagerly as Thatch quickly pops his hand out for a sample. Brok starts squeezing the thick liquid out of its container, not even bothering to explain it’s disgusting texture, and then he goes on to explain, “Now all you need to do is smear it into your skin-”

Thatch doesn’t get the chance to smear it into his skin. The man immediately shouts out in surprise as he waves his hand in the air as if he had just pulled it out of a fire ant hill. Marco looks at his friend with raised brows while Thatch continues about in his attempts to shake the sunscreen off.  

“It burns!” He sounds off.

Brok recovers quickly, “That means it’s working!”

“Walking in the sun would be less painful!” Thatch shouts.

“Haha! Don’t make me laugh,” Brok laughs, waving his hand in dismissal. His tone quickly changes, flat, “Now that you’ve tried a sample, though, that’ll cost you 20,000 beli.”

Marco is the one that answers this time. “For a _sample?”_

“Well hey, I never said it was a _free_ sample,” Brok sniffs, “Besides, this stuff is extremely rare! I can’t just hand it out like candy.”

Thatch’s shoulders deflate in defeat. He digs through one of his pockets, probably looking for what spare change he had, but Marco’s hand grabs hold of his companion’s wrist to stop him from even considering to give away any of his money. “You gave it out willingly, yoi. We don’t need to pay for it,” Marco says.

“Now I’ll have you know-” Brok begins, but he stops mid-sentence. The Whitebeard Pirates both give him a curious expression.

Brok robotically turns to glance over at a familiar group of marines that were now asking around if they had seen a man in sunglasses, a trench coat, and brown hair. Hearing their voices had given him a reason to stop everything he was doing.

Brok laughs nervously, turning back to the Whitebeard Pirates with a trembling smile, “Uh, now that you mention it, you’re completely right! You don’t have to pay a single beli!”

“But you just said-” Marco begins.

“Me? I said something? Surely, not. I wouldn’t try to rob two respectable gentlemen! What do you take me for? A crook?”

 _Respectable gentlemen,_ he inwardly scoffs, _who ever heard about a respectable pirate?_

Marco looked ready to retort, but it vanishes when the marines spot Brok. The group quickly yells out, running toward him, and Brok turns sharply with the bottle of sunscreen still in his hands.

“Don’t come any closer! Or I will have to unleash my secret weapon!” He crows.

The marines freeze, mid-run, hesitant.

One elbows the other, “He said he’s got a secret weapon…”

“We all heard it!” The other two marines ring out together.

The Marines were far too busy with focusing their attention on Brok that they don’t even bother to notice the two easily recognizable pirates _behind_ him.

“He ain’t got no secret weapon,” one of them claims, “Look! It’s just a bottle!”

The marines all nod together in agreement before breaking out in a charge once more.

Brok puts on a face of panic as they approach. Sure, he was just bluffing, but now he really didn’t know what to do! There were two Whitebeard Pirates behind him and a group of Marines in front of him!

Brok squeezes the bottle without thinking much about what he was doing with his hands and the sunscreen spurts out straight like a water gun. The sunscreen flies to the pursuing marines until it splatters all over their uniforms. The one that was in the middle screeches to a stop as the sunscreen lands on his face.

“You call _this_ a secret weapon?” The one in the middle laughs, smearing the sunscreen across his face in an effort to get it off, “This is nothing more than some smelly-”

He doesn’t complete his sentence. Not when the pain hits.

The marine drops on the ground and rolls around in the gravel in pain. His hands are clawing at his face.

“IT BURNS!” He yells out.

Brok takes their distraction as an opportunity for him to get away. He turns on his heels, dropping the sunscreen bottle behind him, dodging past Marco and Thatch before crying out, “That means it’s working!” to the poor marine that was writhing in pain.

Brok laughs as he sprints across the pathway. He turns and then-

And then-

_Uh…._

Another group of marines all turn to look at him. They had heard his charging footsteps.

Brok gulps.

“Would you guys happen to be interested in some sunscreen?” He offers weakly.

The Marines take a collective step forward.

“I thought not,” Brok sighs as he hunches over in defeat. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

The two marines that had left their friend rolling around the gravel eventually catch up to Brok, effectively blocking him off from turning right back around. Brok’s eyes scan his surroundings for any potential escape routes. He can’t say he finds an escape, but he _does_ see an old man with a broom trying to clear the dust off of his store front’s small porch…

“Excuse me, sir!” He says, running to the old man. All the marines shout out in alarm thinking that Brok was going to take the old man hostage. All of them nearly fall over when Brok reaches out, hands outstretched in such a manner as if to take the old man, only to snatch the old man’s broom away.

It was the opposite of taking candy from a baby! It was taking a broom from an old man!

“I'm going to borrow this for a sec, k?” Brok tells the old man as he weighs the broom in his hand like a sword. “This is just what I need to pound these marines into dust!”

The marines all stare at him in blank shock before quickly shaking themselves out of their dazed stupor. Brok can feel the atmosphere swell with cockiness as they considered Brok. _Surely,_ he imagines them thinking, _a man with a broom can’t stand up to the might of several men!_

All of them ascend on him.

A lot happens in one minute.

Brok fends off the marines with frightening ease. He uses his broom to deflect basic sword attacks while hitting the broom across two of their heads. His attacks knock out the marines instantly. He sends them to an uncomfortable rest on rocky ground as he moves on to deal with their comrades.

Only one is left standing. Brok allows the marine’s attack to barely skim the skin of his right arm before he clutches said arm to his chest. He stares at the marine with comically wide eyes, saying, “You broke my arm! It’s going to cost 50,000 beli for my hospital bills!”

The marine stops and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Oh, geez, sorry. I didn’t mean to- hey- wait a second!”

Brok laughs good-naturedly as he grips the broom with both of his hands. “Thanks for being a good sport, but I can’t play with you right now. Not unless you give me a fee of 10,000 beli!”

“Who’d give you that much money!?” The marine barks as he swings his sword against Brok once more.

Brok deflects the blow and quickly whacks the man across the head.

The marine falls onto the ground.

Brok releases one hand from the broom, dusts off his trench coat with his free hand, and then he adjusts the sunglasses covering his eyes. “Looks like I swept them up,” he chuckles at his own joke, even making the motion of sweeping the broom’s straw bristles over a fallen marine. This action of his lands him on the receiving end of a stare from the old man who had watched the whole thing happen.

Brok stops once he notices that he still has an audience. He walks over to the old man again. He holds the broom out in offering to the elderly man.

The old man shakes his head.

“You don’t want it back?”

Another shake.

“I was just borrowing it…”

Shake. Again.

Brok shrugs and rests the broom handle on his shoulder. “Alright then. Thanks for the free broom, I guess?”

Brok takes a step back and starts to whistle an old sailor’s tune. He continues down the path back to the port. He is hardly aware that he had more than one audience member, but that wasn’t one of his primary concerns. His most pressing concern is that he needed to get back to the small boat that had brought him to Sandy Blossom across the ocean. It was basically a floating house. Unfortunately, his little boat’s sea-faring days were over, and now all he could do was use it as a simple shelter from the cold nights and rain.

It doesn’t take long to reach his boat.

Of course, he notices the towering boat that, undoubtedly belongs to Whitebeard himself, but he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He had no idea why Whitebeard was here, but he knew that the man wouldn’t linger here long. This was just a port town made to resupply ships. There was nothing much else to Sandy Blossom. People that came often didn’t stay. Especially when they found out that this was the _marine’s territory._

Brok hops onto his boat in one swift movement. He enters into the small cabin situated in the middle and tucks his newly acquired broom in the corner. He then collapses onto the only chair in the room located closely to a small end table by his hanging hammock.

Brok reaches up to his brown hair and grabs a fistful of it. It only takes one hard tug to have the brown hair slip off of his head.

He inspects the wig in his hands.

“Still looks natural,” he mumbles, pulling one hand through his dark, green, hair. It was strange that his wig had a more natural hair color than his actual hair, but there wasn’t much one could do about the hair color they were given at birth.

Brok starts itching at his scalp, scratching the parts that had been irritated by the wig, and then he throws the wig into a corner piled up with his other disguising items.

Brok sighs. He leans back in his chair as one hand reaches down to rest in one of his coat pockets. The only problem is that several objects stop him. Bothered by the clutter, Brok begins to pull the objects out one by one.

“Dammit, _really_ …?”

Brok examines many of the objects that he had set on his end table with a puzzled expression.

Where the hell had he gotten all of these wallets?

Brok hangs his head in exhaustion once the realization hits him.

He had done it _again_! He had pickpocketed all of those marines!

Brok doesn’t have much time to consider the implications of his actions when the familiar sound of his transponder snail reaches his ears. He quickly turns to a little shelf he had recently installed on the wall where a few items lay, and it is there where he spots his transponder snail ringing. Brok stands up, stretching his arms out while he does so, and then he finally answers the snail with a firm, “This is William Hellburn speaking.”

His relaxed posture is gone. There are only a few people that can call him, and _all_ of them were dangerous individuals. He couldn't lack a professional, obedient, attitude when it came to those who held authority over him.

“Drop the act!” A voice comes out of the snail’s mouth. The expression on the snail was an irritated one as the caller continues, “I’m sick of your aliases. Can’t you just answer as Brok, huh!?”

“Apologies.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the man’s voice sounds dismissive as he goes on to say, “Whatever. The only reason I’m calling you is to give you your next mission.” He then mutters, ungratefully, “Man, I really wish I didn’t have to do this tedious stuff. I’m destined for greater things!”

Brok waits patiently for his boss to stop complaining. Finally, his boss tells him, “You’re to infiltrate a slave ship that’s heading to Sandy Blossom in the next four days. You won’t have to stay stationed there any longer after they arrive. The objective is to report back information about the slaver’s operations. Make sure they aren’t thinking of double-crossing us.”

Brok’s lips twitch, threatening to form a frown.

“You’re to stay with them until ordered otherwise.”

“Understood, Spandam,” Brok answers.

“Ugh!! Don’t call me so familiarly!” Spandam huffs out before cutting off the phone call rather abruptly. He gave no room for Brok to ask any questions, not that he would anyway. That was something his mother had made sure to pound into his head at a young age. Cipher Pol did not forgive those who asked too much. Brok was in Cipher Pol 5; the intelligence division of Cipher Pol. He was valued for his abilities in information gathering, and so they often sent him out on missions to report about things that the untrained eye would typically miss. Even so, that didn’t give him a pass to question his authorities.

Brok shuffles through one of the pockets hidden in his trench coat and flicks a lollipop out. He pops it into his mouth as he continues to think about his current situation.

Cipher Pol thought they had him under their thumb. They thought he was a loyal little soldier. A fourteen-year-old under the oppressive eye of his mother.

He wasn’t.

No. Cipher Pol was only a means to an end. It was something that gave him a vast network of people that he could push information out of.

And if there was anything in this world that he loved, it was information.

He loved cramming his head full of secrets and lost intelligence. He loved the tiny details everyone missed, the mysteries of a seemingly dangerous island, or the secret knowledge that only a few people had. There was nothing quite like the feeling of knowing something that others didn’t know and being able to use that information to his advantage. The gathering of facts also opened new pathways to more things he didn’t know.

There were others like him that paid him for the information he had with equally exciting knowledge. As an agent of Cipher Pol, he knew a lot that others didn’t, and that gave him a considerable advantage over other people of his profession. Nevertheless, he would usually have to interact with these people under his various aliases. It would do no good if they knew a ‘Brok’ from Cipher Pol. That was the sort of thing that could get him killed.

 _Jackson Hellburn_ was just one of many. It was the alias he favored the most.

Just thinking about his aliases had Brok’s mind spiraling into his past. His history in Cipher Pol had him infiltrating many pirate crews in which he had used countless fake names and fake appearances. Even his division commander, Spandam, had no idea who he was most of the time. He didn’t even bother to ask. He simply trusted him to carry out his mission which usually involved turning in the pirate crews he infiltrated. Sometimes it was a simple gathering mission, but that was only with the big shots. The smaller pirate crews were relatively easier to trick.

Brok goes over multiple names he had taken up.

_John Jacob, John Jingle, John Heimer, John-_

Brok stops in his thoughts and pulls a hand down his face.

The names he had picked when he was younger and less experienced… were… well… kind of embarrassing. He didn’t have a lot of creativity back then.

Brok yawns.

He pulls himself across the room where a newspaper lied on a pile of junk that he had collected ( _stole_ ) during his time on Sandy Blossom. He then takes the paper with him to his hammock where he settles for what he hopes is for the rest of the evening.

He flips open the newspaper in interest. The newspaper was a great source of information. The only problem was that all the info that the paper had was public and easily accessible. It wasn’t the kind of knowledge one could use to their advantage.

He scans through the newspaper until he reaches a familiar section. _The bounties._

He sees a few familiar faces and then finds a couple of new ones. He reads something about an upcoming rookie named Ace, captain of The Spade Pirates, but that’s the only thing that sticks out to him. Everything else seemed to remain the same.

Brok tosses the paper to the side. It slaps against the floor.

Pirates. Marines.

They were all the same.

Traitors. Backstabbers. It didn’t matter what kind of organization, crew, or division that you were in. They were all the same in one way or another. There was no redeeming. No excuses. The average man suffered underneath their terror, pirate or marine, and there would never be any peace while men traveled the seas. They were all equally corrupt with their power whether it be real or false.

There was no ‘justice’ in The Marines, not when it mattered, and pirates didn’t actually have freedom. No. Freedom comes only through one form.

Knowledge.

And Brok would make sure that, when the time came, he would become the freest man in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

“Land ahoy!”

Brok’s hands tighten around the wooden railing that lined the ship’s deck. His eyes stay trained on the faint image of an approaching island. Brok knew quite a bit about the island despite never having visited. It was amazing what one could learn when half of the crew was drunk. He squeezed out all the details he could manage. That’s how he came to the understanding that their destination, this distant island he had never stepped a foot on, was a privately owned island under the World Government’s protection.

The island didn’t have a name. The slavers had only alluded to it as _headquarters_. The base of all of their operations.

“Prepare the slaves for transport!”

The captain, a thin looking woman, barked out orders to the slackers on deck. It is she who hired Brok as an extra-hand for their voyage only after he had signed a non-disclosure agreement. He had signed it as Weaver Langdon, knowing that the contract’s terms wouldn’t follow him once he left the crew. Weaver Langdon, after all, didn’t exist. No one could punish a man who had never been born.

Brok turns, leaning his back against the railing as he watches the members of the crew run around like headless chickens. The crew’s lack of coordination was mind-boggling. It was as if he was watching a circus act unfold and all of the participants were clowns without makeup.

“Weaver! Get moving!” He hears the captain shout from her spot at the helm.

Brok raises his hands in surrender. He pushes himself off the railing and drags himself to where several of his other crew members stood. They were all waiting for their crewmates to reappear from beneath the deck with the group of slaves, and now Brok had joined them to pretend like he was actually doing something.

The first sign is the clanging of chains.

One by one they come up. Women. Men. Children.

Brok keeps on a hard mask as he watches them all trudge from the confines of the ship. His lips form a straight line, eyes unmoving underneath his sunglasses, as he keeps his arms crossed against his chest. He retains careful control of his body language as to not alert anyone that he didn’t necessarily approve of this site.

The captain removes herself from the helm. Her black, leather boots click against the deck as she inspects the condition of the slaves. She then sweeps her eyes over her crew with a crooked smile that’d make a grown man’s stomach turn. “Good job, boys,” she says, eyes gleaming with greed, “we’ll get paid well for this haul.”

The men around Brok holler and cheer. Their joy almost hides the misery of this situation. None care to consider the sorrowful state of the slaves that had been brought above deck. They were too busy thinking of the massive payday coming in their rotten futures. Some start to list out the things they’ll get once they get paid, but Brok doesn’t have any interest in listening to their conversations. He opts to return to the crew’s quarters instead where he planned to spend the rest of his time until the signal for docking was called out.

Brok locates his hammock quickly.

Underneath his hammock lay a journal filled with empty pages. Brok wasn’t much of a journal-keeper. The information he gathered usually stuck around in his head. He never had any need to write anything down. He had considered using a journal to write down his reports, but that’d do no good. Not with it lying about in the open where any man could snatch it up for a read. No. The only use for his journal was for the blank paper. He could tear it out to work on his aliases.

 _I don’t need any more aliases_ , Brok thinks to himself even as his hands automatically move to tear out a corner of a blank piece of paper. He lays the piece of paper on the ground while hunching over it. With a pencil in hand, he starts writing, allowing his chaotic mind to take over.

_Farren Hayden, Stockley Kendall, Flemming Graham-_

He pauses.

He remembers doing this a long time ago. Back then he’d been ecstatic to come up with ‘secret identities,’ and so he had raced his pencil across blank pages with great enthusiasm. Certainly, at the time he had lacked the imagination for creative names, but there was a passion there that he was missing now now. Now? Now it felt like a chore. Not like the great start to an adventure.

 _John Jacob, John Jingle, John Heimer, John Schmidt._ The precursors to a long life of disguised identities, names, and personalities.

It wouldn’t be wrong, Brok thinks at that moment, to come up with a name in tribute for the young boy who had existed in the past.

_John-_

John what…?

John Garrick? John Fletcher?

His hand seemed to be ahead of his brain as it writes down, _Pol D. John_. The inheritor. The successor. A name that held meaning. A name above the rest. Something that could live up to greatness. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully. Pol D. John was the name of a leader, unlike that of Jackson Hellburn. Jackson Hellburn was a relaxed schmuck. The lazy personification of Brok’s conning tendencies. He was a stage act. The lead actor of a grand facade to hide the man named Brok.

Brok runs a hand through his hair.

_I’m not a philosopher. Why the hell am I thinking in poetry?_

Brok looks at the paper once more before heaving out a massive sigh. He stuffs the piece of paper into one of his pockets. He then digs into another one of his pockets, situated to the left of the inner lining of his trench coat, and then he brings out a lollipop. He unwraps the lollipop’s cover and then pops the lollipop into his mouth.

“All hands on deck!”

Brok jumps in his spot. He kicks the journal underneath his hammock before pulling himself back outside. The crew is in a frenzy. He swears half of them are running around just to put on a show while the others were actually doing the jobs assigned to them. He could see a few of the men grab hold of the chains that linked the slaves together. He knew that they would lead them off the ship once the anchor was thrown down.

Brok’s eyes shift from the crew and onto the land. They were close enough that he could finally make out some of the buildings that were on the island. He saw a large, stone, looking fort surrounded by smaller brick buildings. The buildings were a more significant part of the scenery. The next section consisted of people. Slaves lined the island in chains, not too different from the slaves sitting on the deck, with other slavers that were likely stationed on the island.

The sight of human suffering was a tainted one. It makes the sweet taste of his lollipop sour.

“Weaver! Just the man I was looking for,” a feminine voice calls out.

Brok glances over his shoulder. He greets, with false respect, “Captain Olevia.”

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I want you to report into the administrators of that there fort,” she says, pointing over to the fort that Brok had examined earlier, “and tell them we’ve got their shipment waiting on the beach. We’re not giving them nothing till they pay us properly first.”

Brok doesn’t say no. He can’t. Not when there’s the possibility of getting information out of this short trip. An old-looking fort had to be brimming with secrets that not many people knew. He could also find out about the operations of the slavers. He’d imagine many people, particularly the kind that hated nobles and the World Government, would kill for the details of a slave base.

Brok hides his intentions behind a “Will do, Captain.”

His words seemed to satisfy Olevia. She nods in her approval before her gaze quickly changes to something she spots in her peripheral vision. She stomps away from Brok, shouting, “Don’t bring the sails back down you fool!”

Brok doesn’t stick around. He peers over the railing to consider the sturdiness of the dock below. He doesn’t think twice after that. He hops the railing with no hesitation which rewarded him with a few frightened cries from his crewmates. Brok lands on his feet, not feeling any shock from such a high fall, and he didn’t have to look back up to guess that he was at the end of a few surprised stares. He could feel them all burning holes through his person.

Brok dusts himself off and then adjusts the lollipop in his mouth. The candy is nearly gone by the time he steps foot on the island.

Brok doesn’t like some of the looks he gets from the slaves. The slavers don’t care too much about him, but the slaves all observed him hopefully. He hadn’t a doubt that they were looking for some kind of unknown variable to save them. It was plain fact when he thinks that he wasn’t what they were looking for. They needed a savior. A hero. He was neither. He was a selfish person. The only person he’d ever think of helping was himself. He couldn’t afford to go out of his way for other people.

Such actions would only result in pain.

Brok passes the slaves without looking back.

Brok stops at the fort’s gate once he reaches an inspection patrol. Two men, probably the guards, were checking out the man in front of him.

“You can’t enter with any weapons,” the guard informs the man as he takes away a firearm that had hung on the stranger’s belt. “You’ll receive your gun on the way out.”

Brok hears the man mutter a few curses under his breath before disappearing through the gate.

Brok takes a few steps forward before revelation dawns on him.

Wait a second-

_He can’t go in-_

_Not like-_

“Sir, we’re going to have to inspect you.”

“I’ve got nothing on me,” Brok assures.

“We need to make sure for ourselves,” the guard, dressed in a blue sailor uniform, tells him. He seemed to adopt skeptical features as Brok grew more reluctant to have them run their hands through his pockets.

“No, no, no. There’s no need,” Brok chuckles nervously, waving both of his hands alongside a shake of his head.

“This’ll only take a moment.”

Brok backs up a few steps.

“Now, now-”

Brok doesn’t finish his sentence. The guards both pounce on him. He had the ability to throw them off, but he doesn’t because he’s Weaver at the moment. Weaver was a weak man looking for a lucky break. An act that Brok had put on for his undercover mission on behalf of Cipher Pol. He needed everyone to believe in the persona he was using even if it put him in an uncomfortable position.

“Sir?” One guard pulls back with an object in hand.

“Yeah?” Brok breathes, glad to have at least one off of him.

“Why do you have bird bones in your pocket?”

“Ha!” Brok’s laugh wavers, “Funny story. I was in the kitchen when…”

The other guard interrupts him, pulling off Brok to display three wallets that he had collected from Brok’s pockets. He looks at Brok with a raised brow and Brok helplessly shrugs.

Why was someone working with a bunch of slavers questioning his actions, anyway?

“We’ll have to confiscate these,” both of the guards say in unison as they show Brok a perfect set of silver coated cutlery that they found in his pockets. “Forks and knives can be used as weapons.”

“What about the spoon?”

“No comment.”

“There’s no way it could be weaponized!” Brok claims as he watches the guards place the silverware on a side table where a pile of items sat. “I bet you just want it for yourself!”

“It _is_ a nice set-”

“Shut up!” The left guard bonks his companion’s head with a closed fist. “You’ll get your items back on the way out.”

Brok sticks out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout.

The guards both step aside at the same time.

“Welcome to headquarters. Please enjoy your stay.”

Brok gives the guard on his left side a nasty glare as he pulls himself past them. Any emotion he held for them quickly disappeared when he entered into the fort. The interior was massive. The stone ceiling was high above his head. He had to lean back to see where the top ended accurately.

“The guards let you in with a weapon?”

The voice startles Brok from his admiration. He looks over to the woman who had addressed him. She was a high-class looking lady wearing a pink dress. She also held a pink parasol over the top of her blonde-covered head even though they were well out of the sun.

“A weapon? No. They took everything from me,” Brok tells her.

“Then what’s that?” The woman asks, pointing at his hips with her eyes.

Brok glances down.

_Dammit! Sticky fingers!_

He had taken the gun of the man who had come in before him! It was right on his belt!

_Time to bluff._

“Yeah. They trust me. I’m kind of a big-shot here.”

“Oh, really?” The woman questions, twirling her parasol within her hands, “I’m impressed. Not many people can get in here with a weapon at their side.”

Brok rubs the back of his neck with a sweaty hand. He says, in a boastful voice, “What can I say? I’m an impressive guy.” Brok looks at the woman before him as she started to consider him through half-lidded eyes. Desperate to leave, he points over to the administration desk situated a bit further from where he stood, “I have to check in. They’re expecting me.”

“I see.” The woman’s disappointed tone is dull in Brok’s ears.

He’s got to get out of here. _Now._

He gives her a sharp nod, turns, and then walks stiffly over to the administration desk. His legs shoot up like a toy soldier on a march. It’s a ridiculous sight, but it is one that eventually gets him to his destination.

Brok takes a minute to regain his composure much to the displeasure of the desk attendant.

Speaking of the desk attendant…

This desk was totally out of place! Everything around here looked medieval. The furniture, the decorations, and everything else matched the fort’s style. The desk, on the other hand, looked like it came straight out of an office!

“Can I help you?” The desk attendant drawls.

Brok can see her eyes travel down to the gun at his side.

“I’m from Captain Olevia’s crew. She has a shipment of slaves awaiting on the beach. She won’t hand them over until she’s paid,” Brok states smoothly. He had actually practiced what he was going to say on the way here so that he could act as naturally as possible.

“Captain Olevia? I see,” the woman mutters as she rolls her chair over to a transponder snail that was sitting behind her. “I’ll call it in. Can I ask you to wait until then?”

“Wait? I can do that,” Brok agrees.

The woman hums in affirmation as Brok eyes the large room. There were lots of furniture to choose from. He could just sit on one of them until she decided to call him up…

Ha. Yeah, right. He wasn’t the type of guy who’d sit around. No. He had other things to do. Other things like sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

Brok observes the desk attendant carefully. He waits for the short second that she turns her gaze away to a pile of documents on the desk to her left. That’s all the time he needed to slip past her right in one quick motion. He disappears into a long corridor that was seemingly endless. It stretched out far enough that his eyes couldn’t actually see what was at the end of it. Anyone would be able to spot him if they merely looked into the corridor. There were no hiding places. Not unless he wanted to try the hundreds of doors lined down the wall.

Where did he even begin?

Brok starts walking in vague amusement. The plans of this fort were really odd. Weren’t forts supposed to be a defensive building? How would one, untrained, get out of the fort fast enough if they were trapped in this long corridor?

Brok inspects all the doors he passes. Many of them were clones of each other. A wooden, brown, door with a metal handle. Nothing stood out. Should he just try to open some of them?

Brok sees a blur of grey in the corner of his eye.

He pulls himself to a halt and takes a few steps back.

A door that looked different. Steel. The metal handle had a small keyhole above it. Brok, not being particularly good at lockpicking, gives up the moment he tries opening the door to see if it was already unlocked. He decides to continue on until he hears a resounding click. It frightens him enough that he throws himself on the wall.

The metal door flings open. Brok doesn’t move a muscle. Not when his only hiding spot was behind the opened door. Throwing himself on the wall seemed to be a good move even if it hadn’t been on purpose.

“This’ll give me a raise!” The man who had swung the door open says optimistically. “Everything is shiny! It looks brand new! Just like Momma’ taught me.”

Brok goes over the options in his head. The minute the man decides to close the door is when his position would be revealed. How should he prevent causing an alarm?

Brok coughs.

“What was that!?” The man shouts out. Brok can hear his shoes slide across the floor as he turns about in a panic.

 _“I am the ghost of the-”_ Brok begins in a bad attempt of a ghostly voice, but he doesn’t get to finish. Not when the man standing in the corridor screeches out in utter terror.

“I’m sorry! Momma’ always told me to respect the dead! I didn’t mean to cause no fuss!” He cries out. “What do you want with me? I’ve always been a good boy! Momma’ told me so!”

_“Leave the door open. I need some fresh air. I’ve been trapped in this room ever since I died.”_

The man shrieks, “D-Died?? I’m sorry mister! Don’t you worry! I’ll leave the door open for you!”

_“Good. Now LEAVE!”_

The man gives out another shriek as he skitters off along the corridor. Brok doesn’t have the time to mull over how easy it was to trick him to leave, and instead quietly slips into the room. He dares not close the door behind him. Who knew if it’d need a key or not to open back up.

Brok freezes in his spot at the entrance.

He can’t think.

_What...?_

His eyes slowly scan the room.

“A bathroom!?” He can’t help but shout.

What kind of bathroom had a steel door protecting it!?

It was a bathroom, alright. There was a singular toilet, a mirror, a sink, and a roll of toilet paper hanging from the stone wall. Brok looks over the scene before him once more before finding himself nod in agreement with the man he had tricked earlier. “It _is_ shiny in here. That guy must be one heck of a janitor.” He quickly shakes his head when he realizes that the shiny bathroom shouldn’t be his primary concern! The door was a total sham! It looked like it had been hiding some kind of giant, secretive room.

Brok’s shoulders slump.

“Lame!”

He sighs as he gives the room yet another sweep over.

His eyes stop at the vent in the wall. His temporary pause helps the cogs turn in his mind.

_I could fit in there._

A grown man? Probably not. A fourteen-year-old boy? Easy.

Brok lowers the toilet lid and then hops on top of it. He reaches up to the vent. The vent looked like it hadn’t been moved in a long time because it was stuck tight in the wall. Brok knew the vent cover wouldn’t win this battle, though. He had years of strength training. A metal vent was nothing.

It takes only one hard tug to pull the vent cover off. Brok takes one final look around, his eyes landing on the opened steel door, and then his attention returns to the vent.

Did he really want to risk this?

Brok nods to himself. Yup.

_Let’s do this._

Brok pulls himself up into the vent. It’s a tight squeeze. Brok feels considerably uncomfortable as he tries to pull himself forward. It actually takes a lot more effort than he initially expected, but that doesn’t deter him from crawling through the vent’s pathway system.

Brok comes across multiple exits that peered into average looking rooms. He had passed a master bedroom, a common room, and what looked like to be the food storage. The only thing that catches his attention is a room covered in dark, red, wallpaper.

All the other rooms had stone walls. This one had _wallpaper_. What was this room?

Brok kicks his way out. The vent cover pops down onto the floor before he pulls himself through.

He lands on his feet, crouching low to the ground, while he looked for possible dangers.

 _No one’s in here…_ he thinks to himself as he raises himself from the ground.

The room had an oppressive atmosphere. It was different. Brok didn’t know why it was different. All that he saw in the room was a desk, a few bookcases, and a chic red couch.

Brok finds himself wandering to the desk. His hands go over the smooth desktop and then travel down to one drawer that hung below. It didn’t have a lock. All Brok had to do was slide it open to see what was inside.

Brok shuffles through the items he sees. Paper. An ink quill. The stack of four wanted posters, however, was intriguing.

_The Four Emperors, huh?_

Whitebeard. Shanks. Kaido. Big Mom.

Whoever owned this room seemed to be interested in the big shots in the pirate world. Brok doesn’t linger long on that fact after he mentally files it. His eagerness to explore is far more overpowering than the wanted posters of a couple of notorious pirates.

Brok moves his hand underneath the desk. He feels around for anything resembling that of a button. One could never know if there was a secret compartment. Sadly, Brok finds nothing of the sort. He is forced to move on. He finds himself circling the couch once. Nothing stands out to him. He goes to the bookshelves instead.

His hand runs along the spines of the books that were packed into shelves.

Maybe there was a book that would turn out to be a switch to a secret room? He always loved those kinds of tricks.

Brok feels his way along every single book, bottom to the top shelf. He is quick to understand that there were no secrets to be found. Nothing stood out of place.

Brok sighs.

Was this just an ordinary room?

His excitement falls-

Only to spike once more as Brok drags himself across the room. He hits something hollow. _The floor._ Wood. Different than the rest of the ground.

Brok uses his foot to curl up the corner of the rug on the floor. He rolls up the carpet until he finds the lining of what _had to_ be a secret door into the floor.

Brok squats down. He uses a hand to feel around the latch that looked like it opened the door. He carefully pulls it. The caution he takes might seem odd especially since there were no signs that someone had already entered the secret room, but Brok had learned his lesson from the last time that he had found a secret room in a strange looking place.

Lifting the door open revealed a descending staircase.

Brok looks back up to check the room. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

“Here goes nothing,” Brok mutters to himself.

He hops in.

There is no light that shines his way downward. Brok has to feel around, only relying on the dim light of the room above him, until he reaches yet another door. Brok stops at the bottom step. He presses his ear against the door hoping to spot any strange noises that might alert to the presence of another human being.

No such noise occurs.

He opens the door.

The anticipation that had been building up in his chest explodes once he sees the hidden treasure trove inside the room. It wasn’t gold, silver, or any kind of precious metal. There was no jewelry. No gems. _No_. Merely a mother load of documents. Documents that Brok knew he had to get his hands on.

 _Score!_ The thought echoes in his mind.

Brok hurries forward. He’s already shuffling through a pile, eyes running across line after line, before moving onto another pile for anything interesting. Many of the documents seemed to be classified information on some of the slaves that entered the island. There were numerous reported incidents that the slavers wanted to keep secret from the World Government, but hardly any of it was worth mentioning.

Brok stops.

He holds a single sheet of paper in his hand. It was recently written. He can tell.

_Morning, 4:00 AM, alliance entered with Blackbeard._

Blackbeard?

Brok furrows his brows.

He’d never heard of such a person.

His eyes run down the sheet of paper looking for some sort of clue as to the identity of Blackbeard. He doesn’t find anything. Not on this paper anyway. He sees something on the next document, the one that had been lying underneath it, and then his eyes practically pop out of his skull once he catches sight of a familiar name.

_Afternoon, 12:30 PM, Marshall D. Teach signs in at administration desk._

Brok clenches his teeth, snapping the lollipop stick in half. The half that stuck out falls onto the ground.

Another person might not have known that name.

Brok, however, was a walking file cabinet. He had lists of names in his head of all notable figures, crew members of said notable figures, and more. Marshall D. Teach wasn’t just anyone. He was a crewmember of The Whitebeard Pirates under Captain Whitebeard, himself, one of the most dangerous men to live.

_A man who didn’t like slavery._

Brok forgets everything at that moment. He forgets about how he had probably already been called for at the administration desk. He forgets the gun at his side. He forgets about the slaves out on the beach. He forgets about Cipher Pol.

A large, twisted, grin grows on his face. He can't help it. He _loves_ uncovering the things that men tried to keep to themselves. 

Marshall D. Teach.

The report's listed dates were too close together for it to be a coincidence. Blackbeard had to be some kind of nickname that Teach had taken on after he began his affiliation with this despicable place. Regardless, whether Blackbeard was Teach or not, Brok still knew that Teach would be in  _big trouble_ if anyone had these reports in hand. Signing into the administration desk alone was proof of his involvement with the slavery business. Unless, of course, Whitebeard how somehow permitted Teach to go undercover. 

 _No._ Brok stops that last thought upon remembering Whitebeard's character. He didn't  _do_ undercover missions. He faced things head on. Whitebeard was always blunt in his actions. He wouldn't sneak around.

Brok takes the most recent of Blackbeard’s reports and stuffs them in his pocket. He is not aware that doing so causes the slip of something else he had stuck in there earlier. A tiny slip of paper. It floats down to the floor, unbeknownst to Brok, as he tries to make his pockets look as natural as possible. Walking out with pockets more stuffed than when he came in would be suspicious.

Brok runs up the stairs, slams the door shut, and rolls the rug back over. He doesn’t bother with the vent. He heads straight to the door knowing that it’d be easy to find his way again. The corridor was just one big line. There’s no way he’d get lost.

Brok is breathless in his thrill. This was the feeling he reveled in every time he pulled stunts like this. It was grand. _Brilliant._

Brok opens the door. No one stands in front of it. He’s safe for now.

He glances back at the room.

The door shuts behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Halton Shellby thought this shift would be like any other.

He’d finally paid Captain Olevia’s crew as ordered. They were a rough bunch to deal with. They wouldn’t stop causing havoc on the beach until they were paid. It was then that Halton had to direct several of his companions to transfer the slaves to one of the slave houses surrounding the fort. After that, he reported back to the administration desk as was typical every evening. The desk attendant, Julia, had handed him the daily logs. He knew what he was to do with them. Go to the room underneath the boss’s office, organize the new reports into chronological order, and then head out for bed.

Yes. This shift was supposed to be like any other.

“My mama told me, yes she did, to respect the dead!”

He was stuck with _this_ oaf. The janitor. A short, round, man that had only gotten in because of the connections of his family.

He was going on about respecting the dead _all_ evening. Halton hadn’t a clue as to why, but he didn’t care to find out. He just needed to get to the boss’s secret room, and then he could get rid of the blind follower two steps behind him.

“I feel bad for that ghost, though. Dying in a bathroom ain’t right, uhuh, mama agrees with me!”

Halton stops walking down the corridor once he reaches his destination. He enters into the boss’s room without knocking. The boss wasn’t at home. He didn’t need to knock.

Rigby, the fool who trails after him, follows him in.

The stack of reports tucked underneath Halton’s arm gives him a reason to order Rigby, the imbecile who might as well make himself useful, “Pull the door open.”

“Can do, Mister Halton, sir.”

“Please,” Halton groans, “ _cease_ your talking.”

Rigby rolls the corner of the rug up before pulling up the latch of the door on the floor underneath them. Halton enters in first. He snatches the lantern from Rigby’s hand while doing so. He couldn’t trust Rigby not to trip over his own feet and set the whole room on fire. That would be absolutely disastrous.

“But you know,” Rigby begins.

Halton feels himself age ten years in one moment. He was exhausted by this man’s unintelligent speech! Someone! Take him away!

“Mama told me that ghosts haunt dark places. Why would a ghost haunt a bathroom?”

Halton tunes Rigby’s voice out as he sets the stack of reports on the latest pile. It had papers listed from the year 1519 to 1520.

Rigby pales.

“What's that matter, Mister Halton?”

Perhaps it was because he didn’t bring his glasses with him that he misses an unmistakable sight. How could he not notice that many of the documents that had been perfectly organized were now scattered about as if participants of a raid? This couldn't have been done by one of the workers. They knew better. This was the sort of behavior that’d end them up in a slave cell, branded, and sold like cattle.

“Someone’s been in here,” Halton whispers, deathly afraid of what such a thing implied.

“Well, gee, this don’t look like the other papers,” Rigby says.

Halton turns to the fool sharply. “What is it?” He asks, eyes already zooming in on a scrap of paper within Rigby’s hands. Halton snatches the paper away from Rigby, ignoring the idiot’s disgruntled expression, and then pulls the paper into the view of the lantern’s light. He squints his eyes and tries to read the vague squiggles on the paper.

“It’s too blurry,” Halton admits. He turns to Rigby, questioning, “Can you read it?”

“I ain’t too good at reading, Mister Halton,” Rigby answers.

“ _Try,_ ” Halton demands.

“Well, okay,” Rigby agrees. “It says… uhm…”

“Yes?” Halton encourages.

“Po... No... Gol...?”

“Gol?” Halton repeats.

Rigby furrows his brows in concentration as he continues, “Gol D… uh… D? Umm…”

“Get out with it!” Halton cannot contain his impatience.

“Gol D. Joh- No… Jack-? John! Gol D. John!”

Halton stills.

“It says, Gol D. John?”

“It sure does!” Rigby affirms.

Halton feels his heart skip several beats. Gol D. was not a name easily spoken. That was the sort of name that belonged only to one man.  One _dead_ man.

“You think this is some kinda’ calling card?” Rigby asks.

Halton runs a hand over his shell-shaped combover. The round bald spot in the middle of his head greatly resembled that of a shining pearl. “This has to be some sort of trick. Gol D. Roger never had any children!”

“Really?” Rigby questions.

“I…” Halton hesitates. “I… I’m _fairly_ certain.”

Halton flexes his fingers. The urge to nervously bite his nails grinds at him. He doesn’t do it, not with Rigby as his company, but the temptation is massive upon his heart. He instead voices out his concerns, saying, “But should the deceased pirate king have a child… think of the danger! We can’t ignore this. We need to report this in immediately.” Halton grabs onto Rigby’s shoulders and gives the man a good shake. He doesn’t pay attention to how his grey, shell-shaped hair, seemed to wilt while exclaiming, “We also need to get out of here! If the son of Gol D. Roger is targeting this place, we’ll be decimated! Turned into ash!”

“You’re overreacting…” Rigby says, strangely serious. The scene they were acting out almost made it look like Rigby was the one who had the most common sense out of the both of them.

“No! You simply don’t understand the danger!”

“I think I understand just fine,” Rigby defends.

Halton shakes his head furiously. He then snatches the paper from Rigby’s hand and crushes it in his own. “We can’t have anyone finding out about this,” he tells his new partner-in-crime.  

“But you just said that we needed to report this in,” Rigby tells him.

“I know what I said! Forget what I said! _Listen_ to me!”

Rigby’s face twists in his confusion. “You’re making no sense, Mister Halton, that’s something my mama would agree with.”

Halton throws open the glass panel of his lantern and tosses the sheet into the flame. He doesn’t wait to watch it burn. He shuts the panel and then pushes past Rigby. The confused man can do nothing but follow Halton’s actions.

“This never happened,” Halton tells Rigby.

Rigby frowns but nods his head anyway.

Halton storms out of the boss’s room. His heavy footsteps echo through the corridor as he heads toward the exit. Rigby, at some point, gets left behind. Halton doesn’t know when. He’s eager to leave the fort.

Halton ignores the friendly call from Julia, doesn’t pay attention to the guard’s farewells, and practically runs back to his cabin. He plops the lantern on the side table near the door once he makes it to his home with little care of the flickering flame.

He plops onto the edge of his bed. He rests his chin upon clasped hands.

Halton, for the first time in the last twenty minutes, tries to cool his head.

 _It’s okay,_ Halton thinks to himself, _no one is going to find out._

Halton nervously chuckles. There were not even any signs that Gol D. John actually existed anyway. He was just panicking over someone who wasn’t real! Yeah! That’s it. Gol D. John was just some sad trick on him, and he had nearly fallen for it! Well, after today, he’d just pretend it all never happened. He’d let it all slide.

Halton lays himself down on his straw mattress.

What he needed was sleep. He didn’t need to mull over some ridiculous notion that Gol D. Roger had some kind of _child_. That was a preposterous idea. There was no woman out there that was stupid enough to procreate with the pirate king.

Halton’s head hits the pillow.

He doesn’t get much rest.

“Mister Halton! Mister Halton!”

Heavy knocks on Halton’s door jolts him awake. He feels weary in the belief that he had gotten barely any sleep. His weariness is quickly replaced with irritation as he recognizes the voice that was calling him out. It was Rigby. What the man could be calling for him about this early in the morning, had to be something incredibly tedious. Rigby would probably try to tell him that the ghost that was haunting the bathroom was now haunting _him_ or something.

“Mister Halton!”

“What!?” Halton barks, throwing his front door open.

Rigby stands at his door dressed head to toe in a pair of baby blue pajamas. It made him look more like a child than he was. Especially with the dinosaur pattern that ran across his buttoned shirt.

“Is it really that hard to be a decent human being and allow a man his sleep!?” Halton cries out. He had had enough to deal with yesterday. The last thing he needed was to deal with more of Rigby’s antics!

“Mister Halton, Blackbeard’s here!”

“ _Must_ you yell?” Halton asks hypocritically. He pulls himself a step back, however, when his mind catches up with his emotions. His body begins to shake, as does his voice when he questions, “Did you just say that Blackbeard is here?”

“He just arrived thirty minutes ago, he did! Mama told me that it’d be a good idea to tell you.”

“Why did you not wake me earlier!?” Halton shrieks. “He’s an important guest. We have to treat him with the best of care!” _And only I am capable of that,_ is the rest of Halton’s unheard words. Halton runs out, realizing that he had never changed his clothes when he fell asleep and heads straight back to the fort. Once eager to leave, he was now eager to return. Blackbeard was awaiting for his hosting abilities!

Halton pushes back the protesting guards at the gate. He busts into the fort while sucking in a long breath of air. The broad back of Blackbeard shows him that their janitor hadn’t been lying. The man had, indeed, shown up.

“There he is,” points out Julia.

Blackbeard turns. His form towers over Halton’s.

“Aye. There he is,” Blackbeard observes in vague amusement.

“Yes!” Halton gestures to himself in a wide movement of his arms. “Here I am! Ready to serve. What is it that I might help you with?”

Blackbeard gives Halton a giant toothy grin. Halton can’t help but notice that the pirate had a few missing teeth, but tries not to stare too long as that would be impolite. He didn’t want to offend Blackbeard. That’s the sort of thing that’d end his life. “Your boss said I was supposed to fill out something. It just so happens that the old man gave me a bit of freedom for the next two weeks. I thought I’d take this opportunity to finally sign that document.”

That was not what Halton wanted to hear.

“D-Document?” He repeats. The tone of his voice might as well just give away everything he was thinking. _Did I reorganize the room? No. Did I check if Blackbeard’s documents were stolen? No. I just ran away!_

“That’s what I said,” Blackbeard reaffirms.

Halton chuckles brokenly, “Yes. Of course. Well, if you’d just follow me…”

_Doomed. Doomed._

Ever the pessimistic, Halton could only expect the worst outcome in this situation. What would he do if Blackbeard threatened to kill him if the document he was supposed to sign was gone? What if he learned that someone might have seen his paperwork after an attempted infiltration? Would Halton’s life find its untimely end today?

Halton didn’t even realize he had lead Blackbeard all the way to the boss’s room until he catches himself trying to open the trapdoor. This whole situation just seemed surreal. Blackbeard stands behind him, a smile following his every action, and Halton couldn’t help but feel like he was walking toward his ultimate death.

Halton gulps.

He doesn’t bother with the lantern this time. He’s hoping that Blackbeard’s lack of eyesight will prevent him from seeing the state of disarray that the document room was in.

“What happened here?”

 _No!_ Halton screeches in his head.

“A rat infestation,” he answers. His voice comes out a lot calmer than he expected it to be.

“Zehahaha! It seems you’re having some troubles of your own!” Blackbeard laughs. He slaps Halton on the back hard enough that it sends the man into the desk of papers. He bumps against the edge hard enough that it’ll bruise later.

“Haha…” Halton tries to relax.

_It’s not working!_

“Now about that document,” Blackbeard hums. He begins to run through the papers by himself, not bothering to ask Halton for direction, and then Blackbeard pauses for a brief second. That brief second sends terrible chills down Halton’s spine. He even finds himself edging towards the stairs so that he could run for his life.

“Can you explain this?”

Blackbeard’s voice halts Halton in his steps.

“Explain what?” Halton asks anxiously.

Blackbeard gestures to the stack of papers. “That paper I was supposed to sign. It’s missing.”

 _I’m going to die!_ Halton cries in his mind. There’s already tears running down his cheeks, snot falling out of his nose, and then he falls on his knees in a traditional kowtow. He presses his forehead against the floor as he begs, “Please! Spare my life! I didn’t do anything!”

Blackbeard’s smile slips.

“Are you admitting that you had something to do with the paper missing?”

“No!”

“Then why are you bowing?”

“I don’t want to die!” Halton states.

Blackbeard, greatly puzzled by Halton’s actions, reaches up to scratch his chin. “I guess that depends on you. What happened to the paperwork I was supposed to sign?”

Halton lives by his own survival code. He had learned, from childhood, to never blame something on himself. The blame was always on someone else!

Rigby is the first choice, but Halton stops himself from spouting out anything he’d regret. Rigby was someone honest to a fault. Everyone would believe Rigby’s word over his own. He’d have to blame it on someone who wouldn’t prove him wrong-

Yeah…

_Yeah!_

“Someone infiltrated our fort,” Halton sobs, even as his mind was racing to complete the excuse in his head, “We discovered the man’s name. Gol D. John!”

The heavy atmosphere in the room increases tenfold. Halton honestly didn’t know what it was like to have his life in danger until _now._

“I don’t take to kindly to such jokes,” comes a deep growl. It’s the most vicious thing that Halton’s ever heard. It makes him want to curl up in a clam somewhere and never come out.

“It’s true! Gol D. Roger had a son! We’ve discovered his son in hiding through the testimonies of past slaves that he’s freed! He came back to terrorize us by stealing our most valuable information,” he outright lies. Yes. That’s right. It would be easy to make a few slaves lie on his behalf. He could work with this. The best part is that Blackbeard wouldn’t be able to trace his words back to a real person! He would be in the safe zone!

Blackbeard is eerily silent.

Halton dares to look up.

Blackbeard stands idly for a few seconds before bending down to pick up a white stick on the ground. He twirls the stick in his hand as he inspects it. “Zahahahaha,” he laughs darkly, a smile widening on his face, “so the Pirate King had a son, huh? And to top it all off, it’s his son that has information on me. How do you think I should take this all in? Should I believe you?”

“You should! I’ve never lied in my life. Everyone here can attest to that. Gol D. Roger really has a son, and his name is Gol D. John! I swear it!”

* * *

 Brok sneezes.

“You know that sneezing means that someone is talking about you?” One of his crewmates says.

Brok looks over at the man to his left. He didn’t know what his name was because he was a recent addition to the crew. He was some guy that the captain picked up from headquarters. Brok didn’t have an urge to ask for the new guy’s name. He was going to leave soon.

“I hope it’s only good things,” Brok offers weakly.

“With the business we’re in? Nah,” the new guy returns.

Brok looks away from his crewmate and to the bag that he had packed just a few minutes ago. It was sitting in front of him. Waiting. All of his possessions were in one small, brown, leather, bag.

“Has anyone seen my wallet!?” A voice resounds through the crew’s quarters.

“I’m missing mine too!” Another voice yells.

Brok wisely decides not to say anything.

“Captain! You missing your wallet too?”

“Hell no.”

Brok looks up at the captain’s approach. He hides all emotion as he looks up to her form. She was much taller than him when he was sitting down, cross-legged, against the wall. He knew there had to be a reason she had come into the crew’s quarters. There wasn’t much for a captain down here.

“You said you wanted to get dropped off at Sirastir, correct?”

“That’s right,” Brok answers with a nod.

The captain frowns. “There’s nothing on that island.”

Brok smiles. “On the contrary, captain, you’d be surprised.”

“There’s nothing much that can surprise me,” Captain Olevia claims. She puffs out her chest, ever-so-slightly, in a demonstration of pride. Brok doesn’t miss it. “Regardless, I’ve accepted your request. We’ll drop you off at Sirastir.”

“That’s the kind of thing I like to hear,” Brok says.

Captain Olevia stares at Brok for a moment longer. Her moment of contemplation has Brok already on edge. Anticipation builds up in his gut. She was going to ask something. Something that would probably make him have to proceed with caution.

“Weaver. You said you were eighteen on your employment contract.”

Brok doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. He uses his great control to guide the actions of his body.

His mother would be proud.

“That’s right.”

Captain Olevia teases, “You could have fooled me. You sound a lot younger.”

Brok falls silent as the captain’s words repeat in his mind. He had created disguise over the years with the purpose of making himself look older. It would give others a harder time in searching him out. It was merely a strategy of concealment.

Brok calculates the tense environment around him and decides to play along with his captain’s teasing. “Aw, c’ mon Captain, you don’t have to go out of your way to flatter me.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “You consider my comment a form of flattery?”

Brok clutches at his head. “Ugh. Don’t make me think too hard. I’ll grow older in the spot. Then all this youth I have will be gone!”

All the men around Brok start laughing. Brok is temporarily relieved that they had fallen for his trickery and that none of them were questioning his real age.

Captain Olevia shakes her head fondly. “We’re going to miss you, Weaver. Are you sure you don’t want to stick around? We’ve got bigger things waiting for us.”

“Thanks for the generous offer,” Brok says with falsified gratitude, “but I’ve already made all the money that I need. I’m thinking of settling down. Having a family. Enjoying the simple life.”

A scoff. “Enjoying the simple life? Well, to each his own, I suppose.” Captain Olevia finally turns her attention away from Brok. Her short, black, cape follows after her in a dramatic flair as she heads back to the upper deck. Her disappearance lifts a heavy weight off of Brok’s chest.

He should be used to this now. The pressure. The stress.

_Don’t think about it._

Brok doesn’t. Not anymore. He wills himself not to.

He looks to the future.


	4. Chapter 4

 “Looks like this is it.”

Brok adjusts the strap of his bag. He pulls it up to his shoulder and gives one last look to the captain he had served under for the previous two months. She wasn’t returning his gaze. Her eyes were fixed on the scene behind him. Brok asks, smugly, “What was that about you saying that nothing could surprise you?” He refers to the faint surprise lining her expression. It was as if she hadn’t expected to find a large town on Sirastir.

Captain Olevia sighs. She adjusts the sailor hat upon her head in a motion of defeat. “I’ve never seen a town on this forsaken island. The Marines said it to be uninhabitable!” Captain Olevia shakes her head. She then shoots out her hand and Brok automatically puts his hand in hers. They shake hands. Brok might have been a bit sentimental about the whole thing if Olevia hadn’t been the leading person of a slave ship. He could imagine that, if he were anyone else, she’d treat him like the dirt underneath her boots.

“Live a good life, Weaver, you deserve it,” Olevia says.

 _I don’t_ , Brok thinks. He smiles anyways and responds, “Thanks. I wish you the best.”

Olevia gives Brok one more nod. She then swerves on her heels and heads back to the docks. Brok watches her retreating back until she disappears into her ship. He can hear her bark out orders from his spot on the beach, but he doesn’t stick around to listen to what she had to say. He heads to the town. He trudges forward through beach sand before hitting the edge of the town. The familiar sight almost feels like home. _Almost_. It must be because he was a frequent visitor.

Brok doesn’t enter the village yet. He heads to the back of a building leaning heavily to its left side. His eyes carefully scan his surroundings. He can’t afford to be caught in a compromising position. There had to be no one out here to witness what he was going to do next. News in this town, after all, travels _fast_.

Brok tugs open the flap of his bag. The bag was big enough to fit one of his extra disguises due to the courtesy of his vast information network. He had multiple connections that would transport items to his location if commanded by one of his old aliases, John Jingle, without giving anything away of his identity. As it so happens, it was _John Jingle_ that he needed right now. John Jingle had been the first of many. He was the one who could walk through this town without being hounded by a hoard of people eager to get information out of him.

Brok tugs at his hair until it slips off of his head. The brown wig wasn’t what he needed right now. He, instead, fishes out a blonde wig out of his bag. It doesn’t take long to put it on. He can’t be slow. Not in these circumstances.

Brok brings out a hat next. Grey. He pulls it over the top of his head and lets the hat flop over. The bell stitched at the end gives out a little ring, but he ignores it in favor of pulling out another pair of sunglasses. He’d never walk around without a pair on. He could never wear the same pair, however, fearing that one might make connections to his actual position. That’s why he switches his sunglasses with another pair. It was wide, black, and the lens curved into the shape of a half-moon.

Brok pulls his arms out of his trench coat. He pulls the sleeves inside-out and then does the same to the coat all-together. _Reversible_. Just the way he liked it. His jacket was now a dark brown. The color was stronger than the traditional beige.

Brok finally reaches down to his shoes. Removing the white spats from his shoes proves to be a time-consuming process. He tries to finish speedily. The last thing he does, once completed, is tuck the spats into the inner-foldings of his bag.

Brok takes in a deep breath.

_Time to get into character._

He reaches into his trench coat. He pulls out a lollipop. The candy quickly ends up in his mouth, the wrapper back in his pocket, and then he _thinks_. Thinks about the kind of things John Jingle would think. He was a slimy sort of man. He was willing to do anything for his own benefit. Nothing could stand in his way. Not when it involved his own interests.

Brok adjusts the sucker’s position in his mouth until it presses against his cheek.

“Weaver Langdon?” Brok mutters to himself, looking around again for any unwanted watchers, “Never knew him.”

Brok doesn’t wait any longer. He had things to do.

He removes himself from the shadows of the hovering building and steps foot into town.

Brok feels several eyes fall upon his form. It’s no surprise to him. This sort of thing was typical in Tonsourston. Brok was walking in a town filled with people of his profession. Information enthusiasts. They were the kind of people that traded in their intelligence for more knowledge of equal caliber. That’s why most of them, if not all of them, came to Tonsourston in the first place.

“Is that John Jingle?” Someone whispers. Brok would have missed it if he hadn’t been keeping an open ear.

“I don’t give away information for free,” another person says. “If you want to know who that is, pay up!”

Their conversation vanishes from hearing range once Brok reaches his goal. He spots the name he was looking for. The Wyvern’s Tavern. This particular bar was a hot-spot for the locals. This is where everyone gathered if they were looking to trade.

He enters. The room’s noisy merrymaking stops at his arrival. There isn’t a single person who doesn’t turn to see who had entered. Their eyes follow at his every movement as he shuffles to a bar-stool. The bell on his hat jingles lightly at his every step. It was a sound that all the bar residents were familiar with. John Jingle, after all, had quite the reputation in Tonsourston. Just about anyone would be able to gather that from the room’s reaction.

The bartender doesn’t bat an eyelash. She continues to wipe down at a glass in her hands as Brok orders, “I’ll have a pint of milk.”

His order breaks the silence.

“Hahahaha!” A laugh resounds. A man, definitely not a stranger, sits next to Brok. “I see your tastes haven’t changed, John!”

“Perhaps not,” Brok shrugs. The bartender lands a whole pint of milk on the bar in front of him and returns to her cleaning. Brok removes the finished lollipop from his mouth. He places the white stick onto the counter and then takes the pint into his hand. “It’ll cost you to learn any more.”

He throws his head back to take a swig. The glass clicks against the wooden bar after he’s finished. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Brok finally addresses the man who had sit at his side. “I’d ask how things have been going for you, Grim, but I expect you’d want some information in exchange.”

“You know the rules here!” Grim’s laugh is full of heart. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re ready to pay the fee.”

Brok chuckles coldly. “There are other ways to get information.”

Grim doesn’t say anything to that. He merely averts his gaze to the glass of beer that he had brought with him. He pulls his beer closer to his chest as he fingers play with the glass handle. When he does speak, it is only to say, “Here’s something I’ll tell you for free. There are some pirates on the island. They’ve set anchor on the other side of the island.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been warning everyone. It’s not often that people find our town. Not unless they’ve got the connections like we do.”

“They must be looking for something specific then,” Brok mumbles.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Grim agrees. He throws a hand over his black hair and runs it down the back of his neck. “Don’t know for certain. They could be here to destroy what we’ve built, or they could be looking for something specific.”

Brok hums in feigned interest. He had come here to barter in information. A couple of pirates were just a distraction. He had nothing to do with them.

He forgets one thing.

_News travels fast in Tonsourston._

A crash of sound has everyone turning their heads to the entrance. The sight of a gasping man had everyone thinking along the same lines. Something happened.

“He’s coming for John Jingle!”

Brok puts the dots together instantly. The others, however, need more detail.

“Who’s coming?” Asks Grim.

The man’s eyes dart to Grim. “You _could_ convince me to tell you.”

Grim frowns. He then turns around in his chair and faces his glass of beer. Brok does the same even while his mind is racing. _Someone must have told them I was here_. If there was something someone didn’t know, even his fellow enthusiasts, they would always be directed to him. His vast network of knowledge often had the answers the most men were looking for.

_Even though I only recently arrived… honestly… who was it that blabbered their mouth off this time?_

Brok thinks of leaving. He knows that no matter where he went, the pirate pursuing him would be able to find him. That was one of the cons of being on an island filled with information brokers, enthusiasts, and the like. That’s why Brok settles for looking at the wanted posters tacked onto the wall behind the bar. His eyes go along all of the wanted posters until it stops on the face of one man who’s wanted poster he had seen a few months ago.

**_Portgas D. Ace. Wanted Dead or Alive. 45,000,000 belis._ **

Damn! This ‘Ace’ character sure worked fast! How had he gathered such a high bounty in one year? Now that was the kind of information that Brok would like to get his hands on. He even turns to Grim just to satisfy his curiosity, asking, “How about an exchange? I’ll tell you about the true fate of the captain of the Black Cat Pirates if you tell me how Portgas D. Ace got his bounty.”

A spark of interest sparks in Grim’s eyes. Brok nearly misses it.

“The captain of the Black Cat Pirates? Kuro of a Hundred Plans?”

“That’s the one,” Brok affirms.

“You mean to tell me that he’s not dead?”

“That depends on you,” Brok answers vaguely.

Grim grins. “Portgas D. Ace is making quite the name for himself. He’s defeated several crews, sunk a marine ship, and word has it that he’s also joined the Whitebeard Pirates.”

Brok almost falls off his chair. “I thought he was the captain of the-”

“The Spade Pirates? Yeah. That’s him, alright.”

“So Whitebeard’s adopted another one?” Brok questions in disbelief. He quickly balances himself on his stool. He had been leaning too heavily on his right. “Well,” Brok gains his composure quickly, “A deal’s a deal. Kuro faked his death. He’s somewhere in the East Blue. I don’t know _where_ exactly nor do I know if he’s still there. All I can tell you is that he’s still living.”

“How did you come about this information?” Grim inquires.

Brok raises his brow. “That’s not what I agreed to exchange with you.”

Besides. How was he to explain to Grim that he had infiltrated the Black Cat Pirates just a year ago? It was a mission directed by Cipher Pol, no less, with the objective to turn in an infamous pirate captain. It was no secret that Kuro was the person sought for after the Marines. The only thing that prevented Brok from turning Kuro in was that the man had faked his death. Cipher Pol hadn’t told him what to do if Kuro should fake his death, and so Brok decided not to pursue the execution of the Black Cat Pirates any longer. He had also thought, at the time, that the disappearance of their captain would break the crew apart. That is why he had slipped out early to report back to Cipher Pol in person. 

He might not have known about Kuro’s survival if he had let Jango hypnotize him. Brok had witnessed Kuro’s rampage on a passing marine ship. Learning this, Kuro had ordered Jango to hypnotize Brok to forget about the whole ordeal.

All Brok had to do to avoid being hypnotized was _close his eyes_. No one knew. Not when he wore sunglasses.

The rest is history.

“You’re right,” Grim sighs in a dejected manner. “I’ll just have to take your word for it after some investigation of my own.”

“You do that.”

Brok turns to his milk. The next five minutes are relatively peaceful. Grim moved on to other people to squeeze information out of while Brok waited for his ultimate encounter with the pirates that were seeking him out.

The room’s silence is his cue. Honestly, he should just bring this tavern everywhere he went. They’d tell him when something was wrong with a situation with a sudden silence.

“John Jingle?”

The voice that asks for his name belongs to a man dressed in a geisha uniform. He had black hair pinned up, a pale complexion, and a smidge of lipstick. It wasn’t the strangest sight that Brok had ever seen, but it certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting. One look over gives him a good idea of who he was speaking to. _Izo of the Whitebeard Pirates_. He might as well start a journal just to keep track of how many times he has run into the Whitebeard Pirates. There were the two commanders on Sandy Blossom, Marshall D. Teach’s records at headquarters, and then Izo who stood beside his barstool.

“What do you want?” Brok asks, adopting a gruff voice. He doesn’t even think about touching his drink. He couldn’t relax his guard.

“Information,” Izo replies.

Brok plays the part of a nonchalant man. He questions, “And what exactly is it that you’re looking for?”

Izo sits himself in the stool that Grim had abandoned earlier.

The noise in the room gradually begins to build back up until there’s full-blown chatter.

“I’m looking into the details of a certain island. I wish to learn more of the marine presence there.”

“Does this island have a name?”

Izo presses his lips together. “No.”

“What makes you think I can help you then?”

Izo regards Brok calmly. His gaze is a calculative one. “I was told that you were the one who was most likely to have any idea as to why this nameless island is occupied by marines.”

Brok faces Izo’s penetrating gaze. “I might know a thing or two if you describe the island to me. Just know that I will not tell you anything without receiving information in return.”

“I suspected as much. Would you, perhaps, be interested in knowing about the current location of Big Mom?”

Brok doesn’t cut corners. “I am. Describe your _island_. I’m listening.”

Izo also doesn’t cut corners. “We had recently discovered this island a few weeks ago. It isn’t on the map. That is why we are puzzled to find it occupied. Let’s see… the best way I can describe it as is… well… an island with small stone buildings surrounding a larger structure. It looked like a fort of some kind.”

Brok almost chokes on his own spit.

“We’ve discovered through our own intelligence gathering that the Marines are involved with that island’s inhabitants. Do you know anything about this?”

“Do I _know-_ ” he begins, struggling to get his own words out. He had just gotten off of Captain Olevia’s ship! A woman who transferred slaves to that island!

Brok collects himself back together.

“Yes. I know.”

Brok’s reply captivated Izo’s attention in one short second.

“That _island-_ ” he begins, knowing he can’t back out of this arrangement of theirs, “is a base for slavers.”

Brok had no qualms over the idea of basically betraying Cipher Pol by giving Izo this knowledge. He didn’t have any attachment to Cipher Pol. He felt no loyalty or pride. Cipher Pol was just on his long list of resources for feeding his addiction in information gathering. That’s why he doesn’t really feel anything when he gives away the truth about the island that Izo had asked about. _Still_. He had thought that he could have kept this sort of thing secret a little while longer. Not many people knew about ‘headquarters.’

Now everyone in the room might as well know. He’d be a fool to deny that there weren’t any eavesdroppers.

_And, once again, news travels fast._

Izo had stiffened at Brok’s admittance. His hands had, at one point, grabbed onto the edge of the bar.

“It’s an island where they transfer slaves in and out,” Brok completes.

Brok becomes the receiver of Izo’s scrutiny. Izo’s searching eyes were looking through him, penetrating his soul, and for a brief moment, Brok felt completely naked. Vulnerable. A feeling he hated.

The feeling relaxes only after Izo averts his eyes to the listed bounty posters. “Do you, perhaps, know of when it would be best to catch the island’s defenses off-guard?”

Brok shoots a hand up. “You’re getting nothing more out of me until you tell me where Big Mom is.”

Izo frowns. He continues regardless of how he feels, saying, “She’s visiting Broc Coli island on the search for rare ingredients.”

Straight to the point. Brok could work with that.

Brok doesn’t acknowledge that he had heard what Izo had said. He moves back a couple of steps in their conversation to give Izo the extra details he was looking for. “I happened to come across a few documents about an affiliate that visits the island. Judging by his reports, I’d say that you’d catch the slavers off-guard around the evening. No one visits the island and any who do are retired to their beds at that point.”

“You mentioned an affiliate?”

Brok falls silent.

Izo presses on, “Big Mom isn’t on Broc Coli island just for rare ingredients. I can tell you more.”

Ah. The old _‘withholding info for more info strategy.’_

He’d bite.

He had to be mindful about what he was going to say next. The Whitebeard Pirates were famous for being defensive and protective over their adopted siblings. Brok didn’t want to have an upset pirate on his hands.

Wait, wait, wait. He didn’t need to say _anything_. He had documents! Official ones too! They were in his pockets. He had never removed them.

Brok reaches into his pockets. Izo must have thought him to be reaching for a weapon because he stiffens. It’s barely noticeable, but Brok has a trained eye. The slightest change in body-language doesn’t escape him.

Brok grabs hold of the documents he had folded in half. He was almost embarrassed handing them over to Izo. _Almost_. It’s not like he had much control over how the documents would look after being stuck in his trench coat for a few days. He had been too busy trying to keep his hand out of other people’s pockets.

“Read it,” is all Brok says.

Izo does.

Izo starts reading calmly. His eyes run line from line. He reaches the bottom of one page, turns it over, and then keeps going. He does this for every page that he holds in his grip. His reading becomes faster and his lips tighter as his eyes scan over critical pieces of data. Izo’s features twist in a way that makes Brok think twice about giving Izo his reward for snooping around at the slaver’s headquarters.

Izo looks up from the pages with a murderous expression.

Brok thinks it’s for him.

He sees a broom at the corner of his eye- if he could just reach it in time-

“Big Mom is staying on Broc Coli island after the rumors of a sighted devil fruit.”

The sentence is said so quick, in such a tense moment, that Brok thinks that he hadn’t heard it. He believes he had dreamed it up in hopes to escape the pressure in the room.

“John Jingle. I have good reason to believe you aren’t lying about this.”

How? Brok thinks. _Why isn’t he getting defensive?_

He expected a sword to the throat, curses, and insults.

Perhaps the Whitebeard Pirates already had their own suspicions on Teach? That’d make the most sense. It could be that the papers that Brok had handed over to Izo were the evidence that they needed.

 _Or_ , something in his head rings, _it could be observation haki probing for his intentions._

Brok couldn’t tell. The lollipops were screwing up his system.

“Can I keep these?”

Brok, realizing he had been momentarily lost in his head, lands his attention back on Izo.

_I’ve already memorized them. I don’t need them anymore._

“It’s all yours.”

He can only imagine the reckoning Whitebeard would have for Teach should those papers reach his hands.

Izo gives Brok the nod of his head as he picks himself off his stool. He makes his way to the exit, but not before turning around to speak to Brok one last time. This time, he invites, “We could use a man like you. We’d value your skills.”

Brok inwardly rolls his eyes. He gives Izo a lazy wave as if to say, I’ll pass, and then outright lies, “Can’t. I’m already apart of the-” _apart of the what? What kind of crew am I apart of??_ “John Pirates.”

Izo doesn’t say anything after that. It seemed Brok’s words were enough to drive him away, but it also seemed to attract the eyes of those around him. They all had a sharp glint in their eyes. The kind that Brok knew would get him into some sort of trouble.

If only he had kept his mouth shut.

Brok finishes off the last of his milk. He thinks over his encounter with Izo until the ringing of his transponder snail ceases all thought. He pushes the glass of milk away from him, stands up from his stool, and then he strides to the exit. He rounds the tavern’s front and hides himself in the back. He uses the tavern’s cover as a quick escape to get to the outskirts of the town without being seen. He stops only when he reaches a grove of trees.

He answers the transponder snail, quietly, “Jackson Hellburn speaking.”

“What did I say about answering as an alias?! How many times have I told you by now?”

Ah. Spandam’s voice was as annoying as ever.

Brok doesn’t get to say anything. He doesn’t have the ability to squish in an insincere apology because Spandam goes on, “We’ll send a ship out to pick you up. Your presence is requested at the Sabaody Archipelago.”

Brok conceals his astonishment.

_Why would they want me there?_

“You got it?” Spandam asks. “I’m not going to repeat it again.”

“Understood.”

“Good! I’m tired of having to explain things!” Spandam announces.

 _Kachap_.

The transponder snail gives him the sound that tells him that Spandam had hung up on him again. Brok was used to this kind of behavior from Spandam.

 _Come to think of it_ , Brok realizes _, I never told him where I was. How is he going to send a ship for me?_

Brok rolls his eyes. He’d probably have to find his own rid. It was unlikely that they’d be able to find him. Almost everyone skipped Sirastir if they could.

Brok sticks the baby transponder snail back into his pocket and then turns his head back to the town.

_I’ll have time. It wouldn’t hurt to get some more info out of the town’s residents._

Brok leaves the grove of trees behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few, small changes, to the story. 
> 
> It's not John D. Roger. It's Gol D. John. I made sure to fix that up in chapter two and three.


	5. Chapter 5

Marshall D. Teach’s usual toothy grin was missing.

_What went wrong?_

He’d been a patient man. He had joined the Whitebeard Pirates at the age of sixteen in the year 1500. Teach thought that joining Whitebeard’s crew would give him the best chance of finding the devil fruit titled the _Yami Yami no Mi_. He had made sure not to put himself into any positions of power even going so far as to refuse the seat as the commander of the second division. He wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. He had been so incredibly careful in his dealings.

Teach looks down at the cherry pie in his lap. His usual appetite was gone.

Something had been off about the commanders after Izo had returned from a confidential trip. They had all kept an eye on him for a long month. It was around the end of the month that Teach had a revelation that the Whitebeard Pirates were actually _investigating_ him.

Things turned sour real quick after that.

They watched for his reaction when they set anchor at an unnamed island. He put the dots together. _Somehow_. Somehow they had found out that he had previously visited this island.

His mind ran back to a past memory. He remembered the slaver that had been bowing at his feet begging for forgiveness. Some of his paperwork had gone missing, taken by _one_ Gol D. John. Halton, the pathetic individual, had insisted that Gol D. John was a real figure. Now Teach felt that he should have believed the man’s words. He would have taken action sooner to prevent the Whitebeard Pirates from obtaining the facts about his sketchy affiliations.

Headquarters was ultimately decimated. The slaves freed.

And Teach? He might as well be an exile. A powerless, fruitless, man stuck in the middle of the sea. He had stolen a boat off of the Moby Dick and slipped away at the dead of night. He dared not stay any longer. The punishment he would suffer under Whitebeard’s judgment was something that he wasn’t willing to stick around for.

Decades of planning were wasted all because of a man who called himself the son of Gol D. Roger.

Teach’s anger weighs heavily on his chest. The pressure threatens to pop his heart and crack his ribs. His eyebrows dig into his forehead as he remembers that Gol D. John was not a name that many people knew. The son of the Pirate King had done well to hide from the eye of the World Government.

“Two can play at this game,” Teach remarks darkly. Gol D. John had revealed Teach’s identity to his crew. Teach doesn’t know _how_. All he knows is that the fault belonged to the son of the Pirate King.

He would make sure to return the favor.

“You think you can hide after what you’ve done to me?” Teach speaks out to the empty ocean.

It was decided.

Blackbeard twists out a baby transponder snail from the satchel that had come with him during his escape. His presence in the slavery business had given him a few connections in the World Government. Slavers had to pay the World Government to turn a blind eye to their profitable practices. The select few people that were bribed by slavers were in communication with Teach. It was a natural outcome from participating in an illegal slavery ring.

“Hello?”

Teach’s smile returns. Just thinking about what he could _do_ to this Gol D. John had put him in a good mood.

“This is Blackbeard. I have news involving the deceased Pirate King…”

* * *

 Grim was an eavesdropper.

There was nothing he was ashamed about. He had to use whatever was necessary to get his hands on the things he wanted. That’s how he had come to overhear John Jingle mentioning something about being apart of a crew called the John Pirates.

Grim had respect for John Jingle. He knew the man was a damn good broker with a shady history. He was a walking mystery. It wasn’t odd to hear people asking after him in an exchange of information. People in Torsourston loved a good mystery. Grim would be _glad_ to let them know that he now had a piece of John Jingle’s puzzling character.

One thing leads to another.

Grim tells a new rookie about John’s membership in a pirate crew called the John Pirates. This information doesn’t stay between two people for long. It spreads like wildfire in Torsourston until _everyone_ knew about it.

“Do you know anything about the other members?”

“Who’s the captain?”

“Where’s their current location?”

“Wasn’t there another broker called John Schmidt? Didn’t he have a similar appearance?”

“Is John Schmidt apart of the John Pirates, too?”

The rumors spiral out of control as old names begin to pop up. Forgotten people across the sea, John Schmidt, John Heimer, and John Jacob all come together to feed the rumor mill. Rationality proves triumphant for the first people who mention these names. They don’t think these names have anything to do with the John Pirates. There was no evidence hinting of any kind of group called the John Pirates at all, to begin with, but a game of _he said, she said_  throws away all logic. Words are twisted, misinterpreted, and misunderstood. A story comes together. A story that has proven to be real only by word of mouth.

The John Pirates _existed_. It becomes a fact. John Jingle, John Jacob, John Heimer, and John Schmidt were all members of this delphic crew. They all wore a similar uniform. Sunglasses, a trench coat, and strange hats. Regardless, they had tried to keep their names hidden, their appearances rare, all in an attempt to hide away their existence.

 _“Why?”_ Comes the newest question.

Theories begin to pop up in every corner of Torsourston.

“I know why! It’s because of this man!”

In the Wyvern’s Tavern, a young woman climbs on top of her table. She holds out a newspaper in her hand that shows the most startling news to reach Torsourston’s borders in decades. The tavern cracks into thunderous commotion. Hollers attract more people to the tavern as the woman tries to speak above the racket. “Gol D. John!”

No one had to have her read it out to them. Everyone could see precisely what was on the cover of the newspaper.

Gol D. John’s wanted poster.

The poster didn’t have a picture of the man. It only had a large question mark as if to tell that no one knew what he looked like. The question mark is not as impressive as what the bold lettering had to say.

**_Gol D. John, wanted dead or alive, 150,000,000,000 beli._ **

His bounty price was at a staggering number. All for what? For existing? For being the supposed son of the Pirate King?

“He’s the captain of the John Pirates!” The woman claims. She stomps one foot on the table to emphasize her point. “They were trying to hide him from the world while traveling in Gol D. Roger’s footsteps!”

“That can’t be right,” someone disagrees. The group of people begin to shout out their objections, trying to get out their own theories, but they are quickly overwhelmed by the majority that was in the tavern. It doesn’t take long for everyone to think, based on mob mentality, yeah, _Gol D. John is the captain of the John Pirates!_

“That means John Jingle works for Gol D. John!?”

“If he had only stayed with us for another day! We would have been able to ask him!” Someone cries.

Another says, “You think I could join them?”

“No way! Your name has to be John,” comes a reply.

“What kind of treasure would I get if I turned this into the Marines?”

“Don’t they already know?”

“Not if we found out first!”

The excitement is hard to contain in the tavern. The news surges through town until every single person is aware that Gol D. John was the captain of a crew called The John Pirates. The news doesn’t stay in town. Not for long. It only takes two weeks for things to go out of control.

Gol D. John was no longer a lonesome man without a crew. The _world_ , courtesy to the untruthful word of information enthusiasts, became aware of the existence of the terrifying John Pirates. The topic of Gol D. John’s captaincy becomes the talk of neighbors, friends, and family. The rumors reach the poorest of people to the richest of nobles.

The Marines are the busiest of all these people.

In the bounty office, several marines work hard to put together the wanted posters of the John Pirates. They come across old pictures that were questionable at best, but they relied on the word that all the John Pirates wore the same uniform in different variations. They had a broker tell them which pirate was named what. Putting their names to old, dodgy, photos wasn’t hard after that.

“John Jacob… John Jingle… John Heimer… John Schmidt…” a marine mumbles out the names as he flips through the newly printed wanted posters.

“Hey!” The marine’s companion, John Hamet exclaims, “Their names are my name too!”

“I’ve heard that, whenever they go out, people always shout, _There goes John Jacob, Jingle, Heimer, Schmidt!”_

“Where did you hear that from?” John asks.

“My mother’s cousin!”

The marine, by merely mentioning his mother’s cousin, brings up one of the most significant problems for the John Pirates. There were people out there that were lying about having met the John Pirates because they were fans of the deceased Gol D. Roger. Store owners were also hopping onto the lying bandwagon by releasing exclusive merchandise of the John Pirates. They even released a fake Jolly Roger of a skull that had a pair of sunglasses on. The merchants didn’t know that they would be the ones to create a famous symbol believed to be related to the John Pirates.

“This sword belonged to Gol D. John before he left this island!”

“He gave me this necklace! See?”

“The son of the Pirate King? Yeah! I know him! He visited me not too long ago!”

“He tried to take my daughter away from me!”

Somewhere on a ship in the middle of the sea, after receiving his newspaper, Brok topples off the edge of his boat.

* * *

 “Hey! Have you read the news?”

“No,” Ace answers. He didn’t have time to read the news. Teach’s betrayal was at the forefront of his mind. He had been responsible for Teach since he had been a member of the second division. How could he not have spotted Teach’s true intentions earlier? Why had it taken a third party for them to open their eyes to Teach’s true motivations?

He had been bothered ever since Teach had slipped out from underneath his nose. Teach had run away after finding out about their suspicions of him. His escape alone was an admittance of guilt. He wouldn’t have needed to run away if he was confident in his innocence. Ace believes himself stupid to have ever thought that Teach was a trustworthy person. The only thing Ace could commend Teach for was his skills in deceit.

His brothers tried to comfort him in their own way. Ace, though, knew he would never be happy until he returned Teach to his father’s mercy.

“Here! Take a look!”

Ace’s brother plops a newspaper onto his lap. Ace picks up a mug of alcohol, jugging it down, while one lazy eye drifts to the paper on his lap.

Ace spits out his drink and coughs violently. He wipes at his mouth with an arm as his eyes train onto the paper’s latest headline.

**_Son of the Pirate King, Gol D. John!_ **

He can’t move. Can’t even blink.

_Son of the Pirate King…?_

Impossible. There was only one son of the Pirate King, and it wasn’t Gol D. John.

But then why was the name ‘Gol D. John’ on the front page of the public newspaper?

“It was a shock to me too!” His brother, a man under his command in the second division, states. “I’d never have thought that the Pirate King would have a son.”

Ace doesn’t answer. He can’t. His words are trapped in his throat.

_What the hell?_


	6. Chapter 6

It’s not a coincidence. 

“Who’s that sitting in the corner?”

Brok doesn’t have a disguise on. He had stuffed his trench coat into one of the lockers that had been assigned to him upon arrival. All of his other items had been shipped off to his base through his information network. The only things he had left in his satchel was a brown wig, another square pair of sunglasses, and a folded wanted poster for one  _ John Jingle _ .

He was still having a hard time registering the gossip that was rotating around the Sabaody Archipelago. He had quickly learned, in his first day, of the existence of a group called the John Pirates. The shock that Brok had received on his voyage, the day he read through the weekly newspaper, didn’t seem to be enough. The bounties of his multiple aliases had his eyes popping out of his skull.  

“That’s Brok. He’s a special guest. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed him. He’s been here for two months!”

“A special guest? Someone who looks that young?”

“I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you.”

Brok doesn’t pay any attention to the marines chattering around him. The only reason he had reported in as  _ Brok _ was because any other identity wouldn’t have worked. Cipher Pol couldn’t vouch for him if he signed in as any other person. They would probably order for his arrest instead. Regardless, Brok wasn’t too concerned about who he was right now. He was still trying to wrap his head around how his aliases had all been put together in a pirate crew under the fake son of a deceased criminal.

_ Someone _ , he tries to reason,  _ might have found that scrap of paper I lost. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is that I wrote down Pol D. John instead of Gol D. John. How did my alias become the son of the Pirate King? And even then, who was it who turned it in? I thought I had lost it on Captain Olevia’s ship. Could it have been a slaver? They’d do anything for money. _

His thoughts clash in an unorganized fury.

Brok reaches for his pant’s pocket. He digs for a lollipop on habit until Brok remembers that he didn’t need a lollipop right now. He only needed them when he was undercover. There’d be no point to have one if he wasn’t acting as someone else.

Brok withdraws his hand.

He takes in a deep, controlled, breath.

_ Okay _ , he starts over,  _ things must have gotten out of hand when I visited Tonsourston. _

That was a given. Brok recalls the exact moment that he had told Izo that he was a member of the ‘John Pirates.’ He hadn’t thought that his words would have been heard, warped, and then realized as truth across the world! This whole situation was ridiculous. Hadn’t any of the information brokers at Tonsourston fact-checked any of the rumors that had been put together? Why did they think it was a good idea to throw out a bunch of lies? Now Brok couldn’t go walking around with any of his older names without catching the attention of bounty hunters and marines!

Brok stands up from his chair.

“Are you going anywhere, sir?”

Brok turns his eyes to the marine that had asked him that question. Brok must have been staring too long because the marine underneath his gaze was shuffling nervously. Brok remedies this by confirming, “I’m going to take a walk.”

Brok didn’t need to stay here anyway. Spandam had failed to give him further instructions of what he was to do while he was stationed here. Supposedly, someone had requested his presence here, but he hadn’t found the person responsible. Brok thinks that something must have happened after the John Pirates popped into existence. Everything seemed to have turned upside down after the Marines had released their bounties.  _ His bounties. Technically. _

Brok stops by his locker by the way out.  He didn’t want to walk around as he was. A second skin would help put his cluttered mind at ease.

Brok grabs hold of his satchel, a spare of sunglasses, and then looks at his trench coat with heavy consideration. He could wear a trench coat. The only problem was that  _ trench coats _ had somehow become apart of the John Pirate’s official uniform. He didn’t want people to suspect him for being the elusive Gol D. John or any of the others underneath him in their imaginary crew. That’s why, after a minute of mental debate, Brok decides against wearing his trench coat.

Brok hides his green hair with a brown wig.

_ Jackson Hellburn reporting for duty. _

Brok doesn’t get very far from Grove 66 before receiving a call through his transponder snail. He halts, ducking behind a series of roots, before answering, “Yes?”

Brok doesn’t flinch when Spandam’s loud voice commands, “You have a change of orders!” The baby snail in Brok’s hand adopts an expression of displeasure. “You are no longer to be stationed at the Sabaody Archipelago. You are now to infiltrate the John Pirates and report back what information you’ve gathered!”

Brok nearly drops the snail in his hand.

“Am I clear?”

“ _ Y _ -” Brok nearly squeaks out. He coughs, clears his throat, and then responds, “Yes.”

“Your success will guarantee a promotion for both you and me. You better take this seriously.”

The call ends just as quickly as it began. Brok can’t find the will in himself to move. He was trying to fathom what Spandam had just ordered him to do.

_ Infiltrate the John Pirates? _ Brok repeats the words in his head. He was to spy on a nonexistent crew? That was impossible. He  _ could  _ just tell Cipher Pol that the John Pirates weren’t a real crew, but would they believe him? Brok knew how powerful groupthink was. If he tried to prove something wrong, with the rest of the world leaning heavily on the other side, he’d be persecuted. Yet, if he didn’t report anything in, wouldn’t that also put him in a dangerous position?

It didn’t help that he couldn’t prove that the John Pirates weren’t real. Not when there were rumors that they had purposefully attempted to conceal their existence. He could dress up as one of his aliases, introduce himself to his superiors, but wouldn’t that just make them think him to be an undercover agent? His mother might be able to convince them otherwise through pure authority, but there were no witnesses that could testify that Brok hadn’t joined the John Pirates after escaping her wing. No one kept an eye on him. He was a lone agent. He was also fresh to the Cipher Pol 5 unit. No one there actually  _ knew  _ him. He’s only been a part of their unit for a few years. That’s why no one would be able to confirm his loyalty or vouch for his character.

Although, now that Brok thinks of it, he wasn’t genuinely loyal to Cipher Pol to begin with. The only reason he sticks around is for the opportunities to obtain information through his missions.

“I’m going to have to figure something out,” Brok mutters to himself.

_ Now _ , Brok thinks to himself, _ where should I start? _

He could go back to Tonsourston. The only problem was that Tonsourston  _ didn’t stay in one place. _ It was a moving town. What was troublesome was that it was probably in the New World by now. Brok had been in Paradise for the last year working under Captain Olevia, carrying out missions, and traveling the sea. He’d need to find some way to get back into the New World. He’d like to do that without having to wait for permission from the World Government. The problem with that, though, was that the only people brave enough to travel through Fishman Island (avoiding the World Government altogether) were  _ pirates _ .

He might not be quick enough to reach the next island that Tonsourston had moved to if he waited around on the Sabaody Archipelago. Traveling with pirates seemed to be the most ideal approach even if Brok didn’t think too fondly of them.

Brok knew what he’d do once he reached Tonsourston. He’d look into the origins of the spreading of Gol D. John. He already had a good idea as to how the John Pirates came into creation, but Gol D. John was a mystery to him. Who had decided to turn that name into the World Government? Who had read Pol D. John as Gol D. John? _ Who was responsible? _

Brok picks himself up and continues his walk.

Brok allows his thoughts to roam free as he tries to come up with a suitable solution to his current dilemma. His thoughts cease abruptly when he hears the sound of a body collapsing on the ground.

Brok turns his head sharply.

No one else was around. No one except for a man who was lying on the ground with his nose sticking in a puddle.

Brok watches for a moment. He waits for the man to pull himself off the ground lest he drowns in a puddle.

_ That’d be a pathetic way to die _ , Brok thinks to himself as he continues to observe. He starts to shuffle in place, something building up in his chest until he realizes that the man had yet to pull himself off the ground. Brok fears the worst. The good samaritan that he often lacked flips his stomach over and pulls him to the man’s side.

Brok does not miss the large tattoo on the man’s backside.

_ Whitebeard _ , he registers.

Brok flips the man over.

A snore breaks the silence.

_ He was SLEEPING!? _ Brok mentally cries.

Brok’s eyes land on the man’s face.

Freckles. Red bead necklace. No shirt.

The name clicks in his head. _ Portgas D. Ace _ .

“What’s the previous captain of the Spade Pirates doing here?” Brok finds himself wondering aloud. Brok just thinks how easy it would be for the Marines to catch him in such a state. That is, if he didn’t drown in a puddle first.

Ace’s eyes pop open.

The man pulls himself up sharply. His hand flies to scratch his head before his eyes settle on Brok’s squatting form. The two stare at each other for a long moment. Brok observes Ace’s eyes travel upward and land atop his head.

Ace starts feeling around his own head realizing that he was missing one of his signature items.

“Ah,” Ace says, pointing at the hat on Brok’s head with a finger, “that’s my hat.”

Brok’s hand shoots up. Sure enough, he feels a hat on his head.

_ Again!? _

He didn’t even notice!

Brok gives Ace a practiced, lopsided, smile.

“Oh! Sorry,” he apologizes, pulling the hat off his head and offering it back to the former captain. Ace grabs the hat from Brok’s hand quickly. He plops it back on his head. “I thought you were dead for a second there. You were face down in a puddle,” Brok tells him.

Ace grimaces. He didn’t have to look back to know that Brok’s words were true. His face had a thin coat of water on it, and his hair was dripping. “You moved me?” Ace finally asks.

“Yeah,” Brok confirms.

“I see,” Ace says, nodding his head. The former captain raises himself off the ground and motions for Brok to follow. “I was just heading back to the ship, but then I smelled something delicious coming from one of the stalls. You can imagine what happened next,” Ace laughs, gesturing to the ground, “I fell asleep on my way there!”

“You  _ fell asleep _ while  _ walking? _ ” Brok asks in his bewilderment, “How’d you manage that?”

“Hahaha! Don’t worry about it! It happens all the time,” Ace laughs humorously. Brok finds himself shocked stiff after Ace had slapped his back good-naturedly. “There’s got to be some way I can thank you.”

_ No, I’m good, _ Brok immediately thinks after recovering. He was about to object until he remembered what he had thought previously. He didn’t want to wait around for permission from the World Government to get back into the New World.

_ If I could somehow convince Whitebeard to escort me to Tonsourston… _

“Now that you mention it, there is something you can help me with,” Brok begins eagerly. He changes his whole tune. He’s not the calculative, over-thinking, cautious Brok. He’s now the charismatic salesman, Jackson Hellburn! “I’m currently seeking out a ride to the New World to procure strange and unusual products!”

“A ride?” Ace scratches his chin. “Hmm. Yeah. I can do that. I’d still have to take it up with pops though. I’m sure he won’t mind, though.”

“He won’t?” Brok asks.

“Nah,” Ace says. “You helped me out. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t turn your request away.”

“I see!” Brok exclaims. “Then lead the way!”

“For sure!” Ace responds with just as much as enthusiasm. The only difference is that Brok’s enthusiasm wasn’t  _ real _ . Not in the slightest.

Brok follows Ace all the way to Whitebeard’s ship. Brok had seen it once before, at the docks of Sandy Blossom, but he hadn’t thought much of it back then. Now that he has time to think about it, why was Whitebeard in Paradise to begin with? His territory was elsewhere. Not to mention that it was the  _ Moby Dick _ that was in Paradise- Whitebeard’s main flagship. There had to be something here that had Whitebeard’s attention. Whitebeard wouldn’t leave the New World on a whim.

Brok goes over his past conversation with Izo.

The unnamed, slave, island was located in Paradise. What if they were here on an investigation?

Brok walks right up the Moby Dick’s gangplank after Ace.

_ Oh hell. I’m actually entering Whitebeard’s ship. _

Maybe he should reconsider this…?

“Hey, pops!” Ace shouts out at the top of his lungs. Brok can feel several eyes swerve in his direction. Brok has to resist the urge to make himself look smaller. “I brought someone!”

“Oh?”

_ It’s him. Whitebeard. _

Brok can’t say he ever imagined himself meeting Whitebeard. The chances were too small. Regardless, here he was. Whitebeard was a lot more massive than his wanted posters made him out to be. Brok found himself tilting his chin upward to look Whitebeard in the eyes. Just looking at Whitebeard was intimidating. Brok understood that the man, sitting in front of him, could kill him with ease.

“Yeah! This guy stopped me from drowning!” Ace gestures to Brok with the wave of a hand.

“Haa!?” Comes a collective sound from everyone around them.

“I asked how I could repay him. He said he needed a ride to the New World. What do you think, pops?”

Whitebeard regards Brok with a pressuring stare.

The whole crew falls silent as Whitebeard and Brok hold a staring contest. Brok finds it difficult to hold Whitebeard’s gaze. Everything within him was telling him to act submissive. _ Look away. _

He doesn’t.

Whitebeard closes his eyes, and then takes a swig from his drink, “Prepare the guest quarters.”

“Aye!” The crew replies, obeying Whitebeard’s words as if law. The deck begins to grow noisy again. Whitebeard keeps his eyes close, content. Brok releases a mental sigh even as people were gathering around both he and Ace.

“Ace!” One shouts out, “Who’s this?”

Ace turns, mouth opening as he prepares to introduce their guest, but then he stops himself. He frowns. “Oh. Sorry. I never asked for your name!”

Some of Ace’s brothers put on comical-looking features. Brok might have found it amusing if he wasn’t in the middle of a bunch of Whitebeard Pirates. “Jackson Hellburn,” Brok answers, “I am but a humble merchant trying to sell my wares! Thank you for giving me this opportunity to travel with you!”

“Anyone who saves a brother of ours is welcome!” A pirate yells from the crowd. Brok hears a rumble of agreement wave across the group.

“This calls for a celebration!”

Brok doesn’t know how it happens. One moment, he’s a safe distance away from all of Ace’s brothers, and then the next thing he knows, hes being pulled into the group of large sweaty men. Brok has to gather all of his willpower not to flinch away as the group of pirates begin to close in on him. He adopts a strained smile while his insides twist in a rotten way.

“Stop hounding him,” calls out another voice. Ace, who was free from the group’s reach, lets out a cheerful noise of acknowledgment.

“Vista!”

Brok squeezes himself out of the group.

“Ace,” Vista greets politely. He then observes, “You weren’t gone for long. Why are you back?”

Ace’s smile falls. Something severe flashes across his face, and that is when Brok understands that there was more to Whitebeard’s presence at the Sabaody Archipelago.  _ Something was up. _

Brok glances at Whitebeard.

Best not to pry. Brok wasn’t sure he’d be able to escape with his head if he did. It didn’t matter how much he valued information. He couldn’t spark Whitebeard’s temper.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ace promises.

“Hmm,” Vista hums, turning his eyes to Brok’s. “The guest quarters are ready.”

“I’ll show him the way!” Ace immediately volunteers. He leads, leaving the group of his energetic brothers behind him, while Brok hurries after his heels.

The guest quarters weren’t far. They reach it quickly.

“You’ll be staying here for the rest of our voyage,” Ace explains. He opens the door leading into a small room that had a bed tucked into the corner of the room.  _ A real bed. _ Not a blanket and straw, a hammock, or a sleeping bag. The room had an actual, bona fide, bed.

“It looks cozy!” Brok says, honestly.

“That’s good,” Ace returns. “I think you’ll like it here. We’ll treat you as one of our own.”

_ I’m not sure if I want that _ , Brok thinks. All of those people acting familiarly with him, _ touching him, _ made him uncomfortable. _ If I could just… somehow… avoid them all while I’m here. That’d be great. _

“I’ll give you some time to settle in.” Ace says, "We’ll be setting sail soon that means there’ll be no turning back.”

Brok nods to indicate that he had heard what Ace said.

Ace gives a grunt in return before turning to walk out. He gives Brok the space that he so desperately needed.

_ Is it going to be like this during the whole voyage? _ Brok inwardly groans.

Well, whatever. He’d make it through. He always did.


	7. Chapter 7

The men under Captain Olevia’s command never worked in coordination. They had run around like headless chickens as Olevia barked out a string of orders.

Whitebeard, on the other hand, spoke no words. He didn’t need to. His crew was frighteningly organized. Every man fell into place like a cog in a giant machine. It was a sight worthy of admiration. Brok found himself impressed several times as his tour guide, someone under the fifth division, showed him around the Moby Dick. He saw men, both above and below deck, working in harmony.

This was the sort of fellowship that even the Marines seemed to lack.

“This,” Brok’s guide breaks his thoughts, “is where the crew eats.”

Brok examines an open room filled with a few, basic, wooden tables. He sees a few members of the crew sitting together engaged in conversations. None of them turned their heads at Brok’s appearance. It seemed the hype for his tenancy had died down on the first day of his stay. It was as if taking aboard complete strangers was a regular thing, but Brok knew better than to think that. The reason why they were so relaxed was that they didn’t consider him to be a threat. Why would they? A division commander could kill him in one blow.

Maybe that’s why Ace didn’t give it a second thought when he agreed to Brok’s request.

Brok, himself, knew he’d have trouble accepting the request of a man he’d barely met. It didn’t matter if he saved his life or not. He’d still be suspicious.

“You’re welcome to come down here whenever you feel hungry,” his guide invites.

 _Uhm,_ Brok thinks to himself, observing the clutter of people around him, _I think not._

Eating around people? That was laughable. He wouldn’t do that willingly. Not unless it was for an undercover mission. Fortunately, he wasn’t here to squirm his way into the hearts of the Whitebeard Pirates. He was just going to stay here until they reached the New World. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less. The sooner he got off, the better.

Brok’s eyes land on an empty table.

 _Opportunity_ , the Jackson Hellburn in him says, _Let’s put on a show._

Brok doesn’t think twice. He leaves the custody of his guide, turns his satchel over, and pours all of his items onto the tabletop. The crashing of sound, the squeak of confusion from his guide, rewards Brok with adequate attention. Brok hunches over the table as he adjusts the items on the table. Half of these items had gradually appeared in his satchel on his way to the Moby Dick, and now Brok was sorting them out like auction pieces.

“Come look at my wares! I sell bits and bobs, odds and ends, and all manner of trinkets!” Brok says with a grand wave of his arms. Brok then wraps his hands around a handheld mirror, pulls it off the table, and holds it up in the air. He displays it for all to say, claiming, “This mirror has been dipped into the healing waters of the island, Patecatl. It’s impossible to break! It’s the unbreakable mirror!”

Brok attracts a small group. Some of the pirates had abandoned their food, others brought it with them, while they crowd around Brok’s makeshift shop.

“Is it really unbreakable?” Asks a man with a mouth full of bread.

Brok affirms, “No man, beast, or strange creature can destroy this mirror!” He continues, “I’m selling this piece for 600,000 beli!”

A startled silence rolls into the room. Brok freezes in place, a salesman smile upon his face, with one hand holding up his mirror. He stays that way until a shared exclamation escapes all of the mouths of his observers, “That’s too expensive!”

“Expensive?” Brok frowns, his arm lowering, “You won’t find a better price for such a prized object! It’s an unbreakable mirror, you hear!? _Unbreakable!_ ”

Brok, in his efforts to explain why the price was so high, doesn’t notice the relaxing of his grip. It takes only a few seconds for the mirror to slip out of his hold and smash onto the ground with a resounding **_crack_** _!_

The room falls silent, yet again, as Brok’s eyes slowly travel to the ground. He spots several pieces of his so-called _unbreakable_ mirror that had flown off after impact with the floor. Brok slowly lowers himself to the ground to pick up a piece. Brok doesn’t have to look up to see that everyone had been following his movements.

Brok raises himself back up. He offers, with a somber expression on his face, “40,000 beli for the shards of the unbreakable mirror.”

Brok knew what to expect. He’d hear a cry of protest. Complaints. That sort of thing. That’s why he’s caught off-guard when he hears a lone laugh cut through the silence. The strange atmosphere breaks when a chorus of howling laughter follows. Brok watches two of the men lean on each other for support so that they don’t fall over from busting their guts. Another one falls back in his seat and slaps his knee in humor.

Brok lets the absurdity of this situation sink in.

“You’re a riot!” Yells out a man, tall, with a scar running down his cheek.

“I’m glad pops let him onboard!”

“What else have you got to sell?!”

“Keep him here, Whatley! We want to hear more!”

Whatley, Brok soon learns, is his guide’s name. That is because Whatley answers, with a sigh, “I’m not through showing him around the ship! Besides, you all have chores to do!”

Brok finally takes a good look at his guide. Whatley was a head taller than Brok with a head full of dirty brown hair. He had a bandana, folded, and tied around his forehead.

A dejected wave of noise escapes Whitebeard’s men as Whatley gestures back to the stairs. Brok, taking the hint, reassures, “Not to worry! Our voyage isn’t over yet! I’ll be here until we reach the New World!” He then scoops up all the items back into his satchel. After that, Brok starts heading back up the stairs. A cheer of farewell echoes behind him.

 _Wow_ , is all Brok can manage to think. He had intended to sell an act. Not… not… _whatever_ that was below deck.

Brok had only taken about five steps before Whatley voices, “Were you seriously going to sell that mirror for 500,000 beli?”

“600,000,” Brok corrects.

Whatley guffaws, “600,000?”

“That’s what I said.”

Brok steps foot outside. He only falters when he spots the increased number of Whitebeard’s men. Brok’s eyes fall upon five commanders that were standing together before Whitebeard. Brok names them off, one by one, in his mind.

Vista, Ace, Thatch, Marco, and Izo.

He might as well be in the presence of legends.

“-ou lost his trail?”

Whitebeard’s voice vibrates across the deck.

Brok receives a nudge from Whatley, who was stuck on the stairs behind him, and so Brok politely moved a couple of steps forward. The two exchange a glance before giving their attention to Whitebeard.

“He’s a slippery _bastard_ ,” Ace spits out, “he got away from us this time. He’s not going to get away again.”

That’s when it hits. Something heavy. Unseen.

Brok’s eyes widen.

_Conqueror’s Haki._

He’d never come to encounter it himself. He had only heard about it from his mother.

Brok head spins. Whatley had already collapsed against the wooden paneling below him, but that was the least of Brok’s concerns. He felt dizzy. Dizzy enough to make him wonder if his will wasn’t as strong as he initially thought it to be. He had heard that those with strong willpower didn’t have a problem when dealing with a user of Conqueror’s Haki. Brok was not one of those people. Not when he was struggling to set his head straight between his shoulders.

Brok’s wavering vision lands on Whitebeard’s form.

 _Is he looking at me?_ Brok thinks to himself. Whitebeard’s eyes were on his own.

He blinks, and the illusion is gone. Brok moves his gaze from Whitebeard, hoping he had imagined everything, and lands on the other four commanders.

The commanders stood with no problem.

 _I can see why they’re Whitebeard’s commanders_ , Brok thinks while clenching his teeth.

“Ace,” Whitebeard’s voice calls out in a commanding tone, “look around you.”

Brok watches as Ace obeys Whitebeard’s words. His eyes widen as he begins to realize what he had done.

Brok nearly slumps in relief when the pressure of Ace’s Conqueror’s Haki vanishes.

“I-” Ace begins, trying to explain himself, but then he shakes his head. “Sorry.”

Whitebeard looks upon his son for a moment longer. Whitebeard’s quiet observation is broken when he asks, “What of the rest of you? Did you find any leads?”

“Thatch and I only discovered further evidence on Teach’s involvement with slavers,” Marco informs. Though his face held a calm, lazy, expression… there was something sharp in his eyes.

 _Teach_.

Comprehension floods Brok’s mind.

It only takes one name for everything to come together.

Izo came to Brok at Tonsourston for information regarding the slaver island. Whitebeard’s original purpose in Paradise had something to do with that nameless island. Perhaps he was expanding his territory? Whether that was true or not, the reveal of a traitor would have them staying if only to connect Teach’s affiliations with the island they were looking into.

Brok hadn’t seen or heard of, Teach once since his arrival on the Moby Dick. Something happened. _A runaway?_ Probably.

_That would mean that they’re tracking him. They can’t find him._

“I regret to inform that I have nothing to report, aside from the information that I handed in earlier,” Izo answers.

“I investigated the Sabaody Archipelago with Ace before we got separated. He’s correct. His trail vanishes there,” Vista says with a face as solid as stone.

Whitebeard didn’t look too happy with what he was given. Brok knew the exact reason as to why that was. Whitebeard was a man of standards. The lone fact that Whitebeard had been housing a man who had put himself in line with the worst scum of the world could not have been a pleasant thing to learn. Teach had put himself in a position that brought great dishonor to Whitebeard’s name.

“Honor dies where interest lies,” Brok mumbles.

“We’ll continue our way to the New World,” Whitebeard states, he then continues, “Get some rest until we reach Fishman island.”

All of the commanders nod. Ace does so, too, though reluctantly.

Thatch, who had been silent until this moment, sighs, “Rest? No way! This ship can’t run without my expertise in the culinary arts!” He goes on, turning to the other way as he does, “You can pretend to be okay with-” Thatch’s words come to an abrupt stop as his eyes train onto Brok’s form.

Brok is confused for a few seconds until-

_Oh, right! I met him as Jackson Hellburn!_

“You’re that guy! You tried to swindle me!” Thatch shouts out.

Thatch’s words get Marco’s attention, too. He turns his head to look over his shoulder. His expression changes into one of recognition.

Brok tenses on the spot.

_This isn’t good. They’ll make me walk the plank-_

“You’re hilarious!” Thatch barks out in laughter, effectively banishing Brok’s thoughts. “You- _with the sunscreen-_ ” Thatch wheezes, “And how you took out _all those marines_.” Thatch clutches his stomach. “You can’t make that sort of thing up!”

Marco, ignoring his brother, asks, “What’s he doing here?”

“He said he needed a ride,” Ace explains. Ace looked like he had a lot on his mind. His answer was given half-heartedly, and his eyes were unfocused. By the way he had reacted earlier, Brok knew that Ace wasn’t happy with Teach’s disappearance. The idea that they might not find Teach anytime soon could be what was weighing down on his mind.

“And pops approved this?” Marco asks.

“Aye, that I did,” Whitebeard says.

That seemed to garner Marco’s interest. Something in Whitebeard’s confirmation had given Marco reason to re-evaluate Brok’s person. Brok could feel Marco’s eyes searching for something. He didn’t know what it might be that Marco was looking for.

Thatch had wiped away a few, leftover, tears before approaching Brok. He holds out a hand with a friendly grin plastered on his face as he introduces, “The name’s Thatch. I look forward to journeying with you.”

Brok takes hold of Thatch’s hand. “Jackson. Likewise.”

 _His grip is like steel!_ Brok thinks as they shake hands.

Whatley stirs with a groan. Brok removes his hand from Thatch’s to focus on Whatley’s fallen form.

Low chatter begins to ripple across the deck as victims of Ace’s Conqueror’s Haki began to wake up. Whatley joins in, saying, “Did I just wrestle with a sea king?” Whatley’s words are only followed by his attempts to massage his forehead.

Brok can’t help himself. “You look like you could use some pain-relieving herbs straight from the shores of Patecatl!”

Whatley makes a noise sounding akin to _pfft_. He then rejects, “Not if it’s going to be as pricey as that 600,000 beli mirror of yours.”

That seemed to amuse Thatch. “Now, that sounds like a story!”

“One that’ll have to wait, I haven’t completed my task!” Whatley sniffs. His eyes leave Brok’s. The second his eyes land on Thatch’s figure, Whatley jumps up in place, “C-Commander Thatch! I- uh- I didn’t mean to sound rude!”

“Your task?” Thatch inquires.

“Yes!” Whatley returns quickly. “I was to show Jackson around the ship.”

Brok tunes out Whatley as he sees the change in his surroundings. The remaining commanders had dispersed, going their separate ways, and the chatter was livelier. Brok also saw a few nurses fussing around Whitebeard, but the captain didn’t look too bothered by it.

“I guess you’ll just have to share your story with me some other time,” Thatch’s words reels Brok back into the conversation.

Brok doesn’t know what compels him to say, “Not unless you give me a story in return.”

 _An exchange of information_. He wouldn’t give anything away for free.

“Sounds like a deal!” Thatch agrees.

Thatch bids goodbye before heading off in the direction of the kitchen. Brok, on the other hand, returns to Whatley’s mercy as they resume their tour.  

Whatley, for the rest of the day, guides Brok through several rooms. The only place they don’t get to explore was the Captain’s Cabin. Not that Brok cared. All he wanted to do was go back to his own room, and empty his burdensome pockets. It felt like he had tied sacks of flour to his waist, and he had a pretty good idea as to _why that was_.

“Dude,” Whatley points out, on the way back to the guest quarters, “what the hell is in your pockets?”

 _I have no clue,_ Brok thinks. His mouth says something else. “I’m glad you asked!”

Brok digs into his pockets. His hand grasps at something that probably shouldn’t have fit in his pocket in the first place.

_Oh, dammit. Where did I snatch this from?_

“Just my lucky taxidermied squirrel.”

“You’ve been carrying that with you this entire time?” Whatley asks, skeptically.

“Of course I have,” Brok answers with a strained smile. “I don’t leave home without him.”

Whatley gives Brok a strange look. Then he shrugs.

Brok determines, then and there, Whatley’s probably seen weirder. How can someone just shrug a taxidermied squirrel off? It’s not normal!

_I should have never stepped foot on Whitebeard’s ship._

How can the Whitebeard Pirates be so _accepting?_ It’s unnatural.

Whatley stops in front of Brok. Brok pulls himself to stop, too, so that he doesn’t run into Whatley’s back. Whatley then turns and points at the door to their right, “We’re here. Have fun with your little friend.”

Brok nods. “Will do.”

_No!_

He enters the room.

Brok feels the safety of privacy the minute he shuts the door behind him. He heads to the bed. He doesn’t sit on it though. Not while he’s pouring out his satchel to get rid of the items he had picked up along the way to his room. Brok empties his pockets next feeling a tinge of exasperation.

He’d rob the whole crew by the end of this adventure. This is the sort of thing that’d have someone throw him over the side of the ship.

He plops the squirrel on top of his pile of ill-gotten gains.

Getting kicked off the ship, though, didn’t sound too bad. No other ship had been this stressful before. No one was reacting the way he was used to. The Whitebeard Pirates were their own special breed of crazy. Nothing seemed to faze them. Not a bottle of sunscreen that burns, an unbreakable mirror that breaks, or a taxidermied squirrel in someone’s pocket seemed strange to them.

“I almost prefer Cipher Pol. _Almost._ ”

Brok shuffles through the items until he spots a loaf of dry bread.

“Found my dinner,” he grumbles. It didn’t matter that it had been in his pocket squished between items that have been _who knows where?_ He was hungry. That was that. Brok also refused to eat with Whitebeard’s men. That’s why he wouldn’t go back to the kitchens to grab hold of some food.

Brok pushes all of the items off of his bed. They all crash onto the floor.  He then plops onto the bed, laying down on his back, with his dry bread in hand. He takes a bite while staring at the ceiling. He could hear the laughter of the merrymaking pirates through the walls, but that wasn’t enough to pull him from his brooding.

 _Just until the New World,_ he thinks, _we’ll make it until then._

Patience.

* * *

Slender fingers wrap around the brown fabric. A pale hand smooths down what wrinkles could be seen.

“M-Ma’am,” a shaky voice, belonging to a nervous marine, rings, “t-this is the only item he left behind.”

“How careless of him,” a feminine voice examines, “do you know what he was wearing when he left?”

“A-A white button-up shirt, black pants, and I t-think he had a brown satchel with him, too.”

“I see. I suppose I will have to scold him when I find him,” the woman says smoothly. “I taught him better.”


	8. Chapter 8

The night was not kind to Brok.

Nightmares had disturbed any attempt to sleep. Brok had determined that he would  _ not  _ be getting any rest after the third time of jerking awake. The haunting images that he saw, every time he closed his eyes, were unsettling.

Brok drags a hand down his face. His exhaustion begged him to return to bed, but Brok knew what would happen if he did. His dreams would just pick up where they left off, and he’d have to suffer through his past memories all over again.

Brok sits on the edge of his mattress for a long moment. His eyes lingering on the wall across from him.  Mind void of anything. No thoughts. No feelings. Just…  _ images _ . He wasn’t thinking at all. That’s why his body decides to do the thinking for him. A low, growling, rumble escapes his stomach. His body’s sign of hunger only goes to remind him that the bread he had eaten a few hours ago hadn’t been enough.

_ I could go down to the kitchens, _ Brok thinks. He’d request a real meal. Not just a loaf of bread that he had pickpocketed from someone, somewhere.

_ Yeah, right, _ the thought quickly follows up after Brok’s initial idea. How could he even consider going down to the kitchens for a meal when he didn’t like eating in front of other people? A chef that was working in the kitchen this late in the night would become his observer. He’d eat in discomfort. He couldn’t have that.  

A thought pops into Brok’s head.  _ Why don’t I just steal from the kitchen? _

It’s not an innocent idea. Brok doubted that Whitebeard would be merciful to any guest that robbed him. It wasn’t just stealing from the captain, either, it was stealing from the whole crew. Brok could only imagine the combined outcry of the crew at any attempt to take their food. Sure, it might just be  _ food _ , but it was food that fed all of the people on Whitebeard’s ship.

Ah.  _ No _ . He wouldn’t have the problem of facing justice for stealing food. Brok felt, with unshakable confidence, that he wouldn’t get caught stealing anything. He was adept at sneaking around like a stowaway rat. He trained to conceal himself from a young age. Cipher Pol infiltration missions demanded that he have such skills.

It was decided.

Brok removes himself from the edge of his mattress.

His hand reaches down to his pocket, on habit, and he fingers a single lollipop. His last one. He’d have to make more later, but that wasn’t his top priority right now. Brok was fully aware that he hadn’t eaten any candy before he had taken up residence in Whitebeard’s guest quarters. There were several haki users that would  _ notice  _ the changes if he decided to pop one into his mouth.

The reason is simple. The lollipops change the “shape” of his haki. It was a technique developed by his ancestors, and ultimately changed to suit modern times. Not many knew about it, and why would they? It was a family secret. Brok was pretty sure that his mother would cut out his tongue if she found out that he blabbered about something that had been carefully concealed through generations of people.

Regardless, it  _ could  _ be convenient to eat a lollipop. No one would be able to trace his presence to their only guest aboard their ship. Not if his haki’s signature had changed.

_ But if I were to encounter Izo… _ Brok thinks, hardening his expression,  _ then things could become a problem. _

Izo, according to Brok’s sources, was a skilled haki user. Izo might recognize Brok’s change of haki signature to be the same as the informant he had met at the Wyvern’s Tavern. This depended on Izo’s memory, of course, but Brok couldn’t risk it. It’d do him no good if he let it slip that one of his aliases was a member of the imaginary John Pirates. It took only one person to have Cipher Pol turn on him.

It didn’t help that this was his last lollipop. He couldn’t waste it. Who knew when he’d next get into contact with his information network? He could get them to grab him a bucket load from his base, sure, but they wouldn’t be able to deliver it without arousing suspicions.

Brok sighs. It was challenging to deal with his racing mind. Thinking of every possible outcome, especially the negative ones, made him weary. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help it. His process of thought had come from years of looking out for his backside.

“We’ll just do this the old-fashioned way,” Brok tells himself as if to set his decision in stone.

Brok slips out into the hallway after checking for any passing crewmembers. Staying close to the wall, he follows the corridor that leads to the kitchen. He had mapped the ship when he had toured it with Whatley. He hadn’t even really thought too much about it while he was doing it. By this point, mapping out enemy territory has become a routine thing for him.

Brok takes practiced steps as he slips past the crew’s quarters. He could hear snoring through the thin walls which reaffirmed that most of the crew were still asleep.

Thankfully, Brok reaches the kitchens without issue. He doesn’t get much of a chance to check around the room when he hears light chatter coming from the storage room. Brok quickly slips behind a bundle of barrels. His move saves him from being spotted from the two men, as they emerge from the storage room seemingly engaged in conversation.

_ Two chefs, _ Brok mentally notes. Both wearing a traditional chef’s outfit, although only one was recognizable.

_ Thatch _ .

What was he doing up?

“We’ll stock up on supplies at Fishman Island,” Thatch says.

“Good. We’ve been getting low,” the other, across from Thatch, states.

“Haa… We’ll probably be there by tomorrow evening. Pops is already preparing to submerge into the water.”

“It’s been too long since we’ve visited.”

“That it has!” Thatch says, too cheerily. “ _ Anyway _ , continuing our earlier conversation, what have you heard about the John Pirates?

_ Of all the topics, _ Brok thinks, paling. He still wasn’t sure on how to wrap his head around the incident of the John Pirates. The whole thing was ridiculous. He had  _ never  _ faced anything like the disaster that was the John Pirates.

“You’ll never believe this one. The John Pirates are captained by a man named  _ Gol D. John _ ,” Thatch’s companion claims. Brok finally observes the man carefully. He was a short man, only a bit taller than the barrels that Brok was hiding behind, and he had a head of black, curly hair. Going by what he was wearing, he was apart of Thatch’s division. That's not even mentioning the familiarity he held when speaking to Thatch.

“You can’t mean…” Thatch trails off in shock, eyes dangerously close popping out of his skull.

_ That’s not too far from how I reacted from hearing the news _ , Brok thinks.

“He’s the son of the Pirate King!” The other chef informs. He was a bit  _ too  _ excited at handling such news. “His bloodline lives on!”

“Why haven’t we heard anything about him until now?” Thatch asks, reasonably.

“The John Pirates have been hiding their presence on the seas for years! They purposefully keep a low profile, and I can’t blame them. The whole world would be after their captain’s head if  they knew that the son of Gol D. Roger existed.”

“You mean that they’ve kept their presence hidden for  _ this  _ long,” Thatch questions, tone filled with wonder, “while sailing the seas…?

“That’s right.”

“Does pops know?” Thatch inquires.

“I’d assume so.”

Thatch, in his stunned amazement, runs his fingers through his hair. He stays silent for a moment. Brok’s heart skips a beat as he thinks over the possibility of being discovered by a division commander. The consequences wouldn’t be fun.

“That must be quite the crew,” Thatch finally says.

“Only four members excluding the captain,” the other chef chirps.

“That small?” Thatch exclaims.

“It’s hard to get in, or so I’ve heard,” explains Thatch’s companion. “You can’t get into the crew unless you’re named John.”

Thatch barks a laugh, slapping his friend on the back, “Guess you can’t join them then! Berry!”

Berry’s jaw drops. “To even consider leaving pop’s crew…”

Thatch laughs, again, before leading the way to the exit. “Wonder what they look like?”

“We can get their bounty posters in the newspaper-” Berry’s says. The sound of his voice dims as he maneuvers past Thatch to leave the kitchen. Thatch follows after only to pause in the doorway.

_ What’s keeping him…? _ Brok wonders, eager for them to leave.

Thatch stands there for a solid minute before sniffing, rubbing his nose, and then leaving the room.

Brok lets out a relieved sigh.

_ There’s no one else now, _ Brok says, relying on his observation haki to sweep the room. He stands up from his hiding spot, moving past the barrels, and then he heads straight for the fridge.

The fridge is  _ huge _ .

Brok pulls the door open with great effort.

Brok almost drools at the glorious sight within. He idly rubs at his mouth with his sleeve as his eyes scan the many treasures inside. Fruits. Vegetables. All manner of ingredients. Leftovers.  _ Food _ .

Brok doesn’t think twice. He grabs hold of whatever he can carry. He stuffs vegetables in his pockets, fruits into his pants, and then tucks an armful of leftovers to his chest.

Brok scampers to his room like a field mouse. He’s not safe. Not until he exits the kitchen, sneaks past the crew’s quarters, and retreats into his room.

Brok dumps all of his food onto his bed. He quickly removes all the food hidden in his pants and piles it atop.

His stomach growls again.

_ I know, _ Brok tells his stomach as he reaches down for a shiny, purple-striped, fruit. He takes one large bite out of it and almost melts onto the floor. He takes another bite, then another, until only the core can be seen. He quickly tosses the fruit side for a plate filled with meat. He gobbles it down, stopping halfway only to appreciate how  _ good  _ the food was. He was surprised by the food’s quality. He hadn’t encountered many pirate crews that had such excellent-tasting food. They typically preferred quantity over quality when feeding their crew.

_ This reminds me of… _

Brok stops.

He plops down onto the ground, leaning his back against the wall near his bed, and then settles his head in his hands.

Voices, from distant memories, echo in his head.

_ “Try this one! I worked real hard on it. It’ll taste better than the last one!” _

_ “That’s what you said about the one before!” _

Brok takes a deep breath.

Faint images of his nightmares flash through his mind. The food lays on his bed, long forgotten. His stomach’s cry for more falls upon deaf ears as Brok struggles to control his breathing.

Memories that he had long ago buried into the corners of his mind had just recently been forced to the front of his mind. Brok felt terribly unlucky. The timing was horrible. The last thing he needed was to be hindered by past memories while on an _ Emperor's ship _ . It would disrupt his act. Change the script.  He would lose control.

“I haven’t been doing too good of a job, anyway,” Brok mutters to himself, negatively. He could always do better. It didn’t matter how meticulous he was. He could play Jackson Hellburn to the best of his abilities, but it’d just never be enough.

Everything was getting out of hand.

The John Pirates were just the beginning of it. The John Pirates only existing had given him a hard time. Brok, after all, hates it when he doesn’t have things under control. The reason why he loved information so much, adored it even, was because it made him feel in control. He hoards it, selfishly, and traps his knowledge within the walls of his mind. He could always use it to his advantage. It could save him from any situation.

Except for his mother.

Brok frowns at the thought.

Oh, how he despised his mother.

He can still feel the trail of her long fingernails on his hairline, the heat of a raging fire behind him, and the smell of smoke. He’d never forget. His mind wouldn’t let him. Not when it kept bringing up the same image in his nightmares.

“I’ll be rid of her before long,” Brok assures himself. “Just have to look out for myself, like I always do.”

Brok lifts his head from his hands and turns his gaze back to the pile of food. He stretches out an arm to grab another fruit before taking a bite, chewing lazily as his thoughts start to roam. It is a welcome change. He’d rather think of anything than his own background.

Cipher Pol. He’d have to deal with them somehow.

A mission to infiltrate the John Pirates was a bizarre notion. How was he to feed Cipher Pol the information that they wanted?

Brok mulls over the topic for a few minutes before revelation dawns upon him.

_ I could use the John Pirates to my advantage, _ Brok realizes.

It was no secret that Brok wanted to get out of Cipher Pol. The only reason he stayed was for the connections he had, specific information he could obtain, and his mother. Those were all things he could manage without. He couldn’t leave, however, without being chased down like a filthy criminal. Leaving Cipher Pol, earlier than the retirement age, was like signing a death warrant. He’d be labeled a traitor whether he left without warning, or handed in a resignation form. He knew too much for them to leave him as is.

The John Pirates would become the escape he needed.

What would be a good way to vanish from existence without having the World Government at his heels?

A kidnapping.

His kidnappers? The John Pirates.

He wouldn’t have to go through the complications of coming up with a way to feed information to Cipher Pol if they believed him to be under the captivity of the very crew they sent him to spy on. 

_ Yes _ , Brok thinks eagerly. He’d reach Tonsourston, as planned, and spread the rumors of a captive on the ship that belonged to the John Pirates. No one would doubt him. Not when he was an infamous broker. That was partly the reason that the John Pirates exploded as they did. The people of Tonsourston  _ trusted  _ him, against their better judgment.

_ And Cipher Pol won’t be able to send a rescue team, _ Brok inwardly notes with glee. Not when Gol D. John’s crew were, apparently, masters of concealment. It only helped that they would be looking for a crew. They wouldn’t be looking for  _ one man. _

He’d finally get the break he needed. He could be  _ free _ . Free from Cipher Pol, free from his mother, and free to pursue his search for the unknown.

Excitement travels through his blood, warms his skin, and surges through his muscles.

Brok had been raised in Cipher Pol from a young age as most agents were. He had never known a life without being a member of their organization. He was raised through cruel training, punishments, and beatings. He had crawled through hell and back to get to where he was now.

Brok takes another, hard, bite out of the fruit in his hand.

“Now, all I need to do,” he says, muffled, with a mouth full of food, “is wait.”

He’d have to thank the man behind the Gol D. John rumors after he found him.

Brok wouldn’t be able to enact his plan without him.


	9. Chapter 9

“What the…?!”

Brok falls facedown on the floor. He tries to push himself off of the ground, but his blanket had twisted around his legs sometime during his restless sleep. Brok flips himself over, reaching for the makeshift restraint on his legs, but when his hand only hovers a centimeter away, a sharp jerk shakes his room. His bedframe shifts on the ground, scraping against the wooden panels and hits the wall to his right. Brok had also watched half of the items that he had tossed hazardously on the ground slide across the floor.

Brok, now completely woken from his restless sleep, quickly untangles the blanket wrapped over his legs. He throws it to the side as he pulls himself against the nearest wall. He rests one hand on the wall to support him in the case of another tremor.

The deck. He needed to see what was going on. He couldn’t wait around for something that he didn’t understand. What was causing the ship’s sudden movements? Whitebeard’s devil fruit? No. Whitebeard was reported to have great control over his abilities. Brok couldn’t find any reason for Whitebeard to damage his own ship.

Brok realizes he wouldn’t find out until he headed up to the deck.

Brok leaves the wall and carefully approaches his door. He sticks his head outside, glancing down the hall. The only thing he sees is the backs of a few crew members disappearing around a corner, but then he catches something else in the corner of his eye. Brok’s gaze lands at the floor, right in front of the door, where a plate of food laid.

Brok stares at the plate curiously. Had he dropped the plate of food last night? If he had, wouldn’t he have noticed?

Brok pushes the door open to give him enough space to reach down. He plucks the plate off the ground for further observation. The first thing Brok notices is that the dish is  _ warm _ . Brok knows, for a fact, that all of the food he had stuffed into his pockets were cold to the touch. He had stolen them from a refrigerator, after all, and they wouldn’t have warmed up this much. Not as if they had just been freshly cooked.

What’s more, is that the plate was sitting perfectly in front of his door. Had it not been affected by the ship’s movements? Did someone put it there just recently? 

Brok narrows his eyes.

If there was even the slightest of chances that someone had left this plate of food for him...

Brok’s nose crinkles in disgust. 

He was no fool. His food could be poisoned. Brok was not one to take offered food lightly. Not when he didn’t know where it came from.

Brok turns back into his room discarding the plate onto his bed for later examination and then exits into the hallway. He turns the corner, reaches the stairs, and then pops his head out onto the deck.

What Brok saw was not a typical sight. Lines of pirates were standing near the railing while staring at endless blue. A giant bubble protected them from the pressure of the waters around them. It was hard to miss the giant eye of a sea king peering into the ship’s bubble. It only reaffirmed that they had, at some point, dived under the water. It had probably happened when Brok had fallen out of bed.

Brok climbs the rest of the steps and glances upward. The surface wasn’t anywhere in sight. They were actually underwater.  _ Underwater _ . Brok had been underwater before, but it hadn’t been on a massive ship. He also hadn’t ever dreamed of reaching the depth that they were at now. It was… amazing. How long had it taken for someone to realize that you could travel underwater after coating a ship? When was it, exactly, when Fishman Island had been discovered by explorers? Did the fishmen venture up to the surface before their island had been revealed? Who was it that came up with the genius idea of coating a ship with the bubbles that originated at the Sabaody Archipelago?

The giant sea king, now tired of observing the water’s visitors, swims past the ship. Brok snaps out of his thoughts to watch the sea king’s retreating tail in surprise.

_ It hadn’t attacked them. _

Brok had never seen a sea king skip the opportunity to shred a ship.

Brok turns his attention to those on the deck. He heard multiple conversations, but only one interested him. Ace, who had huddled with the rest of the crew, was being questioned by one of his division members.

“You don’t feel weak? At all?”

Ace shakes his head. “Nope. I’d only feel different if I stuck my hand out of the bubble.”

_ Interesting _ . The devil fruit users didn’t seem to be suffering any side-effects from being surrounded by water on all sides. It didn’t matter that they were underwater. They would stay unaffected as long as the Moby Dick’s coating stayed intact.

“Hey? Isn’t that a fishman?”

The person who had asked this question points out in a specific direction. Everyone’s eyes follow his finger until spotting the faint figure of a large, blue, fishman swimming toward their ship. The fishman cuts through the water frighteningly fast. Finally, once he’s close enough, Brok here’s an ecstatic exclamation, “That’s Namur!”

_ Namur  _ was a fishman with a shark fin sticking out of his back, wearing a shirt with a large red star in the middle, and with an eight tattooed on his neck. The number eight tattoo was related to Namur’s position. The eighth division commander.

He looked smaller on his wanted poster, but then again they all do.

_ What the heck do these people eat to get so huge? _

Namur shoots through the bubble. He lands hard on the deck, and then he shakes himself akin to that of a dog trying to shake the water out of his fur.

“Welcome back,” Whitebeard voices. Whitebeard sits on his seat, as he always seemed to do, and had been silent until Namur’s return.

“I’m home,” Namur states.

“How is the state of Fishman Island?” Whitebeard asks.

“Prepared for your arrival,” Namur answers, shortly.

Whitebeard closes his eyes and takes a swig of alcohol. Marco, who hadn’t moved from his father’s side from the moment Brok set foot on deck, smiles lazily. He says, “There was no need to be impatient, Namur. We would have picked you up from Fishman Island, yoi.”

“I couldn’t wait,” Namur claims.

“Namur!?”

The voice comes from behind Brok. Brok can easily tell who it is after having heard him speaking the previous night.

Thatch approaches Namur with a friendly smile. He says, “You’re back!” He slaps Namur on the back, laughing, “This calls for a party! Berry! Bring out the drinks!”

“Aye!” Berry says, pushing himself through the crowd standing at the edge of the ship.

“Thatch,” Namur greets.

“How was Fishman Island?” Thatch asks, distracting the growing excitement around him as everyone waited for Berry to bring out the mugs and barrels. Some of them looked to Whitebeard for approval, but Whitebeard hadn’t made any noise as his sons reunited. He retained a calm, relaxed, demeanor while his nurses bustled around him.

“Safe,” Namur replies.

“That’s good!” Thatch returns, “It seems things haven’t changed since we visited them after leaving the New World.”

“Not in the slightest,” Namur agrees.

The two only stop talking when Berry returns just as quickly as he had left. Berry came back with a few other chefs in tow. Brok couldn’t help but marvel at how  _ strong  _ some of them were. Berry’s companions were holding barrels upon their shoulders as if they weighed nothing. Brok knows the opposite is true when the heavy barrels slam on the ground.

“Drinks all around!” Berry cheers, pushing a mug in Namur and Thatch’s hand.

Namur and Thatch continue chatting with one another, but Brok could barely hear what they had to say over the jolly shouts of those around him. He gives up around the time that a mug is pushed into his hands.

Brok looks down into his mug.

He didn’t want to drink a single sip.

Now, what would  _ really  _ hit the spot at the moment, was a glass of milk.

“Join us, Jackson!” A familiar voice calls out. Whatley. Brok turns his head to spot a growing circle of dancing, singing, pirates. Whatley was in the middle, hiccuping, with pink tinting his cheeks. His appearance is baffling. Could anyone get drunk that fast?

Brok, personally, had no desire to join him.

Jackson Hellburn was different.

“To dance? You can make a fool of yourself without my help!” Brok teases. He makes his way toward him, anyway, and lays his eyes on the edges of the expanding circle. Multiple pirates were sitting around, cross-legged, watching their brothers with amusement. Brok joins them and settles himself in a large space between two pirates. He’d rather have no one call him out again, not like Whatley had, so it’d be safer to pretend he was participating in some way.

Brok sets his mug in front of him.

“To Namur’s return!” Someone toasts.

“To Namur’s return!” Comes a chorus in reply.

Brok watched the celebration in fascination. They were going to reach Fishman Island that day, and everyone had decided to drink to Namur’s return. Did they plan to port while drunk? That couldn’t be a good idea.

Brok glances at Whitebeard.

Whitebeard didn’t show any negative reaction to the behavior of all of his sons. He didn’t look to be in any mood to stop them, either.

“Not going to drink?”

Brok prevents himself from jumping at the question. Brok’s gaze switches from Whitebeard and lands on the person who had just plopped himself down at his side.

“I’m not too much of a drinker,” Brok says with a forced laugh. 

Ace doesn’t seem to think too much about Brok’s words. He shrugs, takes a swig from the drink in his hand, and then lets out a satisfied sigh. Ace still seemed to be in a state similar to that of the previous day. It appeared the haki incident bothered him more than Ace seemed to let on. He was withdrawn, not particularly eager to join the festivities around him, and he also wore an expression that hinted to a man in deep thought.

Brok, trying not to think too hard about how he was sitting next to a dangerous criminal, focuses on Whitebeard’s crew. Brok had to admit that he had never seen a crew with such a strong fellowship. All of the ships he had infiltrated had been filled with people who wouldn’t hesitate to stab each other in the back. The Whitebeard Pirates, on the other hand… as evident by the way they treated Teach’s betrayal… did not tolerate that kind of attitude.

But maybe it was all a lie. A giant act, not unlike Brok himself.

“Hey-” Ace begins.

Brok pauses.

“Your hands…?” Ace questions.

Brok glances down at his hands. He was in the middle of pulling a string through the hole of a really sharp tooth.

_ Hell, _ Brok thinks,  _ where’d I grab this from? _

His body was acting without him again.

“What are you doing?” Ace finally finishes.

_ Think quickly, _ Brok panics.

“This?” He gestures to the makeshift necklace. “It’s the tooth harvested from a murderous sea king that rampaged the seas for years! This tooth is a cursed object rumored to send cheapskates to an early death! That’s why, for everyone’s safety, I’m selling it for 500,000 beli.”

Ace spits out his drink.

Brok had expected this. The price was too much so-

_ “C-Cursed?” _ Ace questions.

Brok looks at Ace for a long few seconds, completely stunned, before his mouth catches up with the moment. “Uh- yeah- it’s cursed,” he affirms.

“You’re immune to it though,” Ace observes, curious, “because you’re a merchant?”

“T-That’s right,” Brok stumbles.

Brok has no idea how to continue from this point. It only gets worse when he hears a distant voice, at the edge of his hearing, asking, “Has anyone seen one of my teeth? It fell out. I don’t want anyone to step on it and get hurt-”

_ Namur. _

Brok quickly tucks the necklace in his pockets. He laughs, nervously, before continuing, “I thought I’d just make sure I still had it. Wouldn’t want someone to become victim to an unfortunate end!”

_ Why _ , Brok thinks helplessly,  _ do I keep doing this? _

“Land ahoy!”

The partying ceases almost immediately. Brok is taken aback at the sudden soberness of the people around him, but he doesn’t think too much of it. Not when Whitebeard stands up from his seat.

“Prepare to port,” he orders.

The men disperse without question.

Brok doesn’t know what to think of it. All he sees, after all the men had left to ready the Moby Dick, is an outstretched hand.

Ace, who had stood up, was offering to help Brok to his feet.

Brok stares at Ace’s hand for a good second.

Ace, who didn’t seem to be bothered by Brok’s contemplation, says, “It’s admirable that you keep a cursed object with you for the safety of others.”

_ Not really,  _ Brok’s mental reply is unheard.

He grabs Ace’s hand.

Ace pulls him up with ease, and Brok is left to regain his balance.

“I try my best,” is Brok’s weak reply.

Brok releases Ace’s hand and looks over Ace’s shoulder. He examines the approaching underwater landmass. He is distracted, momentarily, by the  _ giant bubble  _ that was surrounding the entire island. How had that happened? Did someone coat a whole island, toss it into the sea, and that’s when the fishmen started living there?

Ace follows Brok’s line of sight.

“Never been to Fishman Island before?” He questions.

“No. I haven’t.”

Ace gives Brok a boyish grin. “It’s amazing. Right?”

“I can only imagine what’s on the  _ inside _ ,” Brok breathes as his eyes follow the exterior of the island. Forgetting that he was supposed to be playing  _ Jackson  _ reels him back in to continue, “I bet there are hundreds of opportunities for a good sale!”

Ace, his mood seeming to have lifted somewhat, chuckles good-naturedly.

_ Nevermind that Fishman Island is filled with creatures that the world nobles think are mindless beasts… _ Brok thinks, reminded of his time with Captain Olevia. There had been a couple of fishmen that had been captured in their slave trade. Brok didn’t think much of it at the time. He wouldn’t. It was a sight that he had become immune to after becoming desensitized to inhumane treatments. He blamed it on the years of being in Cipher Pol, and from years of being surrounded by unfeeling psychopaths. He couldn’t  _ show  _ any feeling. They’d notice. He wasn’t the only master of emotion.

Still…

He’d always known that there was something  _ wrong  _ about it.

_ But there was nothing I could do, _ Brok reasons with himself, _ not if I wanted to keep my life. _

The next thirty minutes go by fast. Whitebeard stands, ready to leave, with Marco’s division behind him. Brok had heard that Whitebeard was going to go have a drink with King Neptune. Marco, along with his division, would not let him go alone.

The divisions that plan to stay behind belong to Izo and Vista. Fishman Island was only a temporary stop, after all, and so they needed to prepare for a voyage into the New World. They also wanted to keep watch on the Moby Dick. Whitebeard would not be as foolish as to leave the Moby Dick deserted for a bold Fishman to steal.

Brok wasn’t too sure about what the divisions under Ace and Thatch would be doing. He could guess that Thatch’s division would probably restock supplies in the kitchens, but that’s about all that he could assume.  _ Ace’s _ division, on the other hand, might just be taking this opportunity to relax.

Namur, who lacked his entire division, would also stay on the ship.

_ Where  _ **_is_ ** _ Namur’s division? _ Brok wonders.

“Are you going to explore?”

Izo had approached Brok during his deep thought. Brok can’t lie. He was a bit on edge. Izo dealt in information, just like him, and that meant he couldn’t relax his guard. Brok wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t afford to have  _ anyone _ , let alone Izo, discover his role in the John Pirates. There was also the possibility that this wasn’t just a question. Izo could be using this conversation as an excuse to get a good grip on Brok’s character.

“Yes,” Brok answers. Short and sweet.

“Alright. I’ll have one of my brothers fetch you once we’re ready to leave.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Brok says.

“Just don’t get too lost,” Izo says. “We’ll have to leave you behind if we can’t find you.”

“Really?” Brok blurts out.

Izo’s voice, or tone, doesn’t change as he replies, “No. I was joking.”

_ That was a joke?  _

“Pops doesn’t break his promises. He wouldn’t leave you behind.”

Jackson Hellburn mode switches on. “Haha! You really had me there! I thought I’d be stranded until the next ship came through!”

“Is that really something you should laugh about?” Izo asks, raising a brow.

Brok nearly falls over.

_ You were the one who said it was a joke! _

“I’ll be going now,” Brok says, instead, not wanting to encourage more conversation. Izo was challenging to read. He almost seemed like a different person when Brok had spoken to him in the Wyvern’s Tavern. Regardless, Brok didn’t want to hang around the person who had the best chance of deciphering his identity.

Brok wisely waits for Whitebeard to leave the ship first.

The revelation of his situation doesn’t enter his head until he removes his eyes from Whitebeard’s back. He was on an Emperor’s  _ ship. _ Why had he thought that this was a good idea? Had Spandam’s mission assignment screwed with his head? Had he been too shocked to understand the consequences of asking one of Whitebeard’s _ ‘sons’ _ to give him a ride to the New World? He had been far too eager to get out of Paradise.

_ Can’t back out now, _ Brok thinks. At least there was some comfort in the fact that Whitebeard didn’t threaten Brok’s existence during his stay on the Moby Dick. Not yet. Whitebeard, just like Izo, was hard to read. Brok didn’t know what he was thinking, and he  _ hates  _ not knowing what was going through the man’s head. Whitebeard isn’t a proud, stupidly honest, blockhead of a captain.  _ No _ . He’s calm, calculative, and reasonably confident.

He’s dangerous.

Brok eventually hops off the ship once Whitebeard’s personage disappears from view. He doesn’t think of Whitebeard much longer, not when Fishman Island slaps all thought of Whitebeard out of his mind.

_ Woah _ .

Brok had never seen so many fishmen gathered in one place.

But there wasn’t just fishmen.

_ Mermaids _ .

He’d only seen them in stories. Mermaids were rare. You could hardly find any above land. Not unless you were a World Noble.

Brok feels terribly out of place as he wanders around. He attracts more than enough stares from the local residents. He couldn’t blame them. He wasn’t blue. He didn’t have gills, a tail, or abnormally sharp teeth. He might as well be a pale devil looking to stab his pitchfork into a serving of seafood.

Brok nervously adjusts his sunglasses as he continues forward on his adventure. Doubt creeps into his mind, but it is quickly crushed by passion. The  _ passion  _ for gathering information from a whole new territory that hadn’t been touched by any of the brokers he’d spoken to, overwhelms any fear of his surroundings. It is this same passion that drives him to seek out any bars. A gathering place of people had, in Brok’s experience, always turned out to be a treasure trove of information.

Brok doesn’t exactly find any bars. He does, however, spot a cafe. It had been the first food establishment he had come across.

The Mermaid Cafe.

Brok almost regrets walking in.

“Oh! A human!”

Okay. It’s called the  _ Mermaid Cafe. _ It was bound to have a bunch of mermaids in it.

Multiple, beautiful, mermaids surround Brok on all sides. They lean into his personal space with a sparkling interest in their eyes. Brok tries to tolerate the invasion, but he has a hard time holding back the building stress. They were  _ close _ . Close enough to touch him. Just a few centimeters and his arm would be grazing the skin of the mermaid to his left-

“What are you all dawdling for? Show him to his table!” Comes the saving voice of a working waitress. She was in the middle of serving a tray full of food to the table closest to her. The four fishmen that occupied the table wore lovestruck expressions as they followed her every movement.

“Allow me!” One, to his right, volunteers.

“Camie? Can you really do it without tripping over your fins?”

“I can!” Camie claims, puffing out her cheeks stubbornly.

The mermaids part, mumbling to one another, as Brok wordlessly pulls himself past them. He follows after Camie and observes her from behind. She had a head full of light green hair and a pink tail. Her uniform, just like the rest of the mermaids at this cafe, was casual. All she wore was a black tank top which Brok believed, from his earlier examination, had a golden star situated in the middle.

“Here you are, sir,” Camie says with a gesture to an empty table.

Brok takes a seat in a booth that looked like it had been carved out of a large piece of coral. Once he settles himself comfortably, Camie offers him a menu.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the menu, after returning a forged friendly smile.

Camie beams. “Take your time on looking over our menu!”

Brok inclines his chin politely. Camie had taken the hint. She leaves the table, and Brok watches her attend to another set of customers.

_ Good _ . He was alone. Even if it was just temporary.

_ Now, _ Brok wonders, _ what do they serve here? _

Cakes… shellfish meat…  _ seaweed tarts? _ What did that even taste like? What the hell was a seaweed tart?

_ Scallop pizza? _

Brok keeps his eyes on the menu, but he spots something in his peripheral vision. Another waitress escorts three, sullen, fishmen to the booth behind him. Their waitress’s attitude was the polar opposite of the atmosphere they carried with them. Brok, upon experimentation, stretches out his observation haki.

He gets one report back.

_ Not safe. Don’t antagonize. _

Brok lowers his head. He hears them speaking, faintly, and strains to listen to their conversation.

“They’ve got a filthy human here?”

“Who cares? He’s not worth our time. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“But doesn’t he kinda’ look like that human that Hody hired-”

_ “We don’t talk about the queen in public,” _ hisses the third fishman.

All of them fall silent. Their conversation had been quiet, to begin with, and anyone would have overlooked it. Anyone except for Brok. Those with observation haki or good instinct might have kept an eye on them if only to make sure they wouldn’t try anything, but few would try to listen in on what they were saying.

_ The queen? _ Brok thinks.

Whitebeard spoke about going to the palace to have a drink with King Neptune. Would he also meet the queen there?

And what was that about this ‘Hody’ and a ‘hired human?’

Brok doesn’t get to hear much more. Camie returns with a stressed smile, and her bubbly personality from earlier had vanished.

“Would you please come with me?” She asks, lowly.

Brok doesn’t know what her motive was until she saw her eyes shift to the group of fishmen that had been seated behind him. Understanding comes to him quickly.

“Of course.”

Brok stands up from his table and feels three pair of eyes burn into the back of his skull.

_ Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea. _

The minute Brok steps into the back room, Camie slams the door shut behind them, and then she releases a shaky sigh.

Brok, on the other hand, can’t take his eyes off of the  _ giant  _ mermaid in front of him.

“Looks like you came at the wrong time,” the woman says. Brok’s eyes slowly trail up from her large shark tail and land on her blue slanted pupils. Her height was comparable to that of Whitebeard, but Brok was pretty sure that Whitebeard was far taller. If the mermaid noticed Brok’s staring, she doesn’t mention it, and continues, “Hody and his gang hate humans. They probably would have followed you out.”

_ And killed you, _ the silence following her sentence implies.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Brok insists.

“Your intentions don’t matter,” the woman says, bringing up a pipe to her lips, “their hatred blinds them.”

“I suppose I’ll have to thank you then,” Brok says.

The woman hums, “No. Thank Camie. She was the one who wanted to help you. I merely entertained her wish.”

Brok glances over his shoulder.

Camie waves at him cheerfully.

“I see,” he nods his head, “in that case, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it! I’m just glad that Madam Shyarly agreed to my plan. It’ll be best if you stay here until they leave. I’ll come back when they’re gone.”

Camie reaches for the door, but Madam Shyarly’s voice stops her.

“Wait.”

Camie pauses.

“My crystal ball.”

Camie’s eyes full of shock was, one word. Amazing. Brok had never seen anyone’s eyes actually  _ jump  _ out of their eye sockets. “But you haven’t done any readings since-”

“Camie.” Madam Shyarly interrupts.

Camie, gathering herself back together, leaves her spot at the door. She gathers up the large crystal ball that had been sitting on a cushion in the shell of a clam, and then she carefully transfers the ball into Madam Shyarly’s hands. Madam Shyarly, in turn, gazes into the crystal ball in curiosity.

“This is an honor that not many receive,” Camie quickly explains to Brok. “Madam Shyarly doesn’t read anyone’s future anymore.”

What? 

“She must see something in you,” Camie guesses, excitedly.

“Me?” Brok can’t help but ask. What could she possibly see? Could she actually see the future? They just met. There had to be something more to this. Were they trying to scam him? Brok could usually smell a scam from a mile away. He was a master of scams, himself, after all.

“You-”

Madam Shyarly’s voice silences both Camie and Brok.

“You are not as you appear.”

Brok’s heart skips a beat.

“Brok Lee.”

Nevermind his heart skipping a beat. His lungs decide not to function, and Brok finds it difficult to breathe.

No way. There was  _ no way _ she could know his name-

Did she work for the World Government? Was she a broker? No.  _ No _ . He’d been so careful. The only other reasonable explanation for her knowledge of his name was that she could actually look into his future.

“It is a poisonous woman I see who threatens your future.”

Madam Shyarly goes into the details of the woman’s appearance, but Brok doesn’t need to hear any of it. He already knew who she was talking about the minute she said  _ poisonous _ .

“You will never be free as long as she follows you,” Madam Shyarly warns. She looks up from her crystal ball to gauge Brok’s reaction. He had been silent the entire time and for a good reason. He hadn’t heard anyone say his name lest they be an agent of Cipher Pol. Then there was the fact that Madam Shyarly claimed that he’d never be  _ free  _ as long as his…

As long as his mother followed his trail.

“Are you okay?” Camie asks. Her hand hovers over his shoulder.

Brok takes an abrupt step to the side. He falsely claims, “I’m fine. There’s no need to worry yourself on my account.” He makes sure to toss her a practiced small smile and hopes that it covers up his last action. His control over his observation haki told him that Camie only had good intentions, but he had no control over his distaste for touch. He could only hope she would overlook his rudeness.

Madam Shyarly brings her pipe up to her lips once more before ordering, “Go check on our dangerous customers, Camie.”

Camie does as told, albeit hesitantly.

After Camie leaves, Madam Shyarly speaks, “I could feel it. The moment you walked in. You are someone who will bring great change to the people around you.”

Brok, feeling as if his whole identity had been exposed, admits, “Not the kind of impression I was going for.”

He tried to be unassuming. Well, as unassuming as a conman could be on an underwater island.

“That’s why I read your future,” Madam Shyarly ignores his previous statement. “I was curious.”

Brok frowns.

“Will you tell anyone else about what you saw?”

“No,” she answers smoothly. “Neither will Camie. She’s a good girl.”

Brok didn’t believe her. Not completely.

Something itches within him. His fingers twitch as if trying to reach his side for the nonexistent sword at his belt.

_ “We don’t keep loose ends, dearest.” _

_ “You must end her.” _

“I don’t want to.”

Madam Shyarly raises a brow.

“You don’t want to?” She questions.

Madam Shyarly’s words help Brok learn that he had spoken aloud. He pulls himself back in. He retrieves himself from the dark pits of his mind, relaxes his posture, and takes in a deep breath.

“Forgive me,” he says with a smile, “I was merely voicing my thoughts.”

The door opens. Camie pops her head in with a giant grin. “They’re gone!”

Brok doesn’t waste another second. He grabs hold of the door, pulling it from Camie’s grip, and widens the space between the doorframe. He then brushes past Camie in his eagerness to leave.

He couldn’t stay.

He’d cause trouble. The kind of trouble that’d put him in fishman  _ prison. _ The voice of reason tells him that he couldn’t risk the rage of Fishman Island nor a punishment inflicted upon him by the Whitebeard Pirates. There was also the small, tiny, detail that Madam Shyarly was partly responsible for protecting him from human-hating fishmen. He couldn’t hurt her. Not when she had helped him without asking for anything in return.

_ But you have to silence her! She’ll talk! Blind faith will get you nowhere! _

**Shut up.**

Brok pulls himself out of Mermaid Cafe. He walks fast, pushing through a crowd of merpeople, and doesn’t stop until the Mermaid Cafe was well out of sight.

Only one strong line of thought lingered.

It was his own.

_ I’m not my mother. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Life has been happening to Sammie and I. I recently got a new job which exhausts me everyday, and Sammie is facing her own stuff rn. Still, we're excited to get this chapter out today! Thank you for waiting.


	10. Chapter 10

How long had it been? Thirty minutes? An hour? Brok had been wandering aimlessly ever since he left the Mermaid Cafe. The only thing that pierces through the fog of his mind is the sound of voices echoing through a gap between two tall structures of coral. The black, ashen, coral was a stark contrast to the vibrant colors that decorated the rest of the island. Brok also observes that there was a noticeable _emptiness_ in the area. Perhaps, it was the lack of chatter or the absence of people.

He finds one thing to be true from his examination. 

Somehow, in some way, Brok had ended up in the wrong part of town. 

“And then we came across a _filthy_ human-”

Brok presses himself against the wall of coral immediately. He didn’t know why that hadn’t been his first order of action. He could have fallen in trouble if he had been caught eavesdropping by a bunch of fishmen... Fishmen who sounded eerily similar to the gang that had taken up residence in the booth behind him when he had settled himself in the Mermaid Cafe. He’d need to see their appearance to be confident, but he couldn’t get a look at their faces. No. Not if he didn’t want to be caught. Popping his head out into a narrow alleyway was a great way to reveal his location. 

So Brok decides to make assumptions based on their conversation alone. 

_So they came across a filthy human? Who? Me? Or was it one that belonged to Whitebeard’s crew?_

“That’s when _this_ fool nearly mentioned the queen in public!”

“Ow!” Comes a pained cry. Brok can guess by the sound of a loud smack that one of the fishmen had been slapped across the back of the head. 

“He almost gave us away!”

“You _know_ we don’t talk about the assassination in _public_ ,” a new voice spits, one Brok didn’t recognize, angrily. 

 _Assassination?_ Brok thinks. He stops breathing. His heart pounds against his chest. His hands were sweaty.  Shaky. 

He was-

_Exhilarated!_

Assassination! How lucky was he to come across such a _gem_ on his first visit to Fishman Island! If he could get his hands on information unavailable to the ignorant public- well- Brok could only _imagine_ the power this knowledge could hold! It was fortunate that he had managed to come across this shabby-looking part of town even if it had been unknowingly!

“Apologies, boss! I was just reminded of how _disgusting_ humans are. When I saw that human in the Mermaid Cafe, I got so _angry_ , and then I remembered that dirty human that we forced to assassinate the-”

“ _Don’t_ say anymore,” the new voice growls.

The fishman didn’t have to say anymore. All Brok had to do was connect the dots. 

Brok remembers, quite clearly, one of them stating, _“We don’t talk about the queen in public,”_ in their previous conversation. That got him thinking. _Hard_ . This was something more than just the assassination of some poor bloke. This was a _political murder._ It had been a human that took her out, but not by his own free will. Hody’s gang, as Madam Shyarly had named them, had forced a human to kill her. Brok had a good idea that this was to cause further stress in the relationship between fishmen and humans. Fishmen were already despised by a large population of people, and so it would be natural to think that fishmen held a vendetta against humans. Their people, after all, were often kidnapped for slavery. 

“I knew humans were trash,” the voice continues, hate-laced in every word, “from the moment those _damned_ marines enslaved me and so many others.”

 _Marines?_ Brok thinks. _Enslavement?_  

“The only thing they’re good at is taking the blame,” he finally finishes. 

Those words might not have meant much to the average eavesdropper, but to the experienced ear… those words held more profound meaning. 

“And Queen Otohime,” the venomous voice scoffs, “what did she think would happen? A petition for the improvement of relationship? How brainless! Humans are weak, puny, worms! Fishmen could never coexist with such trash!”

Brok ignores the blatantly racist comments as he registers the new information.

 _Queen Otohime was a diplomat working on human relations- a human assassinated her- Hody’s gang has something against marines- marines are only good at ‘taking the blame’ (that had to mean something!)- The marines also have enslaved fishmen before. Hody’s gang seems to have been involved in said enslavement._  

Brok furrows his brows. 

_Marines are only good at taking the blame… huh…?_

The human… the human that killed Queen Otohime!

Brok’s eyes widen as the complexity of the situation dawned on him. 

Hody’s gang had forced a _marine_ , out of their spite, to kill the queen. They probably used a marine that had been directly involved in the slavery business, and they had used him as a pawn in their growing conspiracy. They could easily have him take all the blame for their plan. This was a big move to have the fishmen question the ability to live together, peacefully, with humans. 

_This is bigger than I thought._

What would the Marines think of such information? They might just pass it off as something small, something easy to conceal, but that’s where _Whitebeard_ would throw the whole thing into the water. Fishman Island was under Whitebeard’s protection. If he learned that a Marine was responsible for killing the queen (and of course Brok would withhold the truth behind the situation to suit his purposes), there would be chaos. No one messed with an island under Whitebeard’s protection. Not the Marines, not Cipher Pol, nor the World Government itself. 

He could use this. _Yes_.

Blackmail.

Brok was not above blackmail. He’d use it when it was necessary. 

 _But the World Government isn’t honest_ , Brok thinks, biting his bottom lip in deep thought, _there’s no guarantee that it’d work. Not unless I somehow trick them into thinking I’m more powerful than I already am._

Brok clenches his fists, resting at his side. 

_The blackmail wouldn’t succeed. Not unless..._

Realization washes over him. 

The John Pirates!

Oh, yes. It was absolutely _diabolical_. 

They would never take Brok Lee, an agent of Cipher Pol 5, seriously. They knew everything about him. They knew of his skills, his history, and more. They’d be able to easily calculate, based on the files they had on him, the best way to take him out. He was nothing to them. He was just another piece on the chess board just as all Cipher Pol agents were. _Disposable_. 

Gol D. John, on the other hand?

He was an unknown variable. They feared him. They feared anything having to do with the deceased Pirate King, and they were desperate to have him executed. They knew he was powerful because he had, in some way, hidden his existence until now. There was no way they’d be able to take one of Brok’s aliases lightly. Not if they were involved in the John Pirates.

He’d blackmail them using Gol D. John, or any member of the John Pirates.

 _But what for?_ Brok thinks.

 _Well…_ another part of his reasons, _what if the plan to have the John Pirates kidnap me doesn’t work? Blackmail would be a great backup material to grant me my freedom._

 _Or_ , he continues in thought, _I could use it for an exchange of information._

Brok almost drools at the mere idea of gathering more classified secrets from the World Government’s possessive hands. That sort of thing was never offered lightly. 

Brok hears the scuffle of feet. He realizes that he had lingered for far too long. He didn’t want to risk getting caught. 

Brok pushes himself off the wall and runs. Because of years of practice, his footsteps are light and quick, helping him to not attract unwanted attention. He continues to run, taking sharp turns, and skirting around corners until one such corner has him slamming into someone’s chest.

Brok flinches backward immediately. He reaches a hand up to his nose on where he felt most of the impact. 

“Oh! There you are, Jackson!” The man exclaims.

 _Oh_ , Brok finally registers, _he’s human._

 _Whatley_. 

Whatley, to Brok’s understanding, was apart of Izo’s division. Izo had been true to his word when he said he’d send someone from his division to find him. 

“Whatley!” Brok greets, relieved to see another human, “Is it already time to return?”

“Whitebeard finished an hour ago,” Whatley informs him seriously as if delivering a report to a superior. Then he relaxes, going on to say, “You’re a hard man to find. I’ve been searching everywhere for you which I didn’t think would be this much trouble… You’re good at covering your tracks.”

Right. _Right_. Izo’s division was the information gathering division. Tracking people down was in their skillset. 

“Me? Covering my tracks?” Brok asks, already coming up with excuses in his head. “I don’t recall doing such a thing. I did, however, get a bit lost…” Brok then gestures to the area they were in. “I’m glad you found me when you did.” 

“Hmmm,” Whatley hums as he stares at Brok in contemplation. 

“I’m eager to return,” Brok states, quickly, “I have much to tell about the wonderful time I’ve had here.”

 _I do_ , Brok mentally notes, _but a few lies would do nicely to cover up the truth of what truly happened here._

Whatley, seeming to relent in his examination, nods. “I’m sure the others will be glad to hear the stories you’ve collected.”

Whatley doesn’t say anything else. From that point onward, Whatley escorts Brok back to the Moby Dick. Brok is very glad to get out of the slums. The Moby Dick was a sight for sore eyes compared to the nightmare part of the island he had wandered through, and that was a strange notion by itself. That the Moby Dick, a ship owned by a dangerous emperor, would be a _comfort_ to see. It was baffling. 

“Whatley! Jackson! You’re just in time for dinner!” 

Thatch, who had been leaning against the railing, welcomes them back with great enthusiasm. 

 _What’s the head chef doing on the deck during dinner time?_ Brok thinks. 

_Had he been waiting for us?_

Brok shakes his head. That was a silly idea. 

Brok takes one step on deck, ready to tell Thatch that he’d rather go to his room then eat dinner with a bunch of pirates (though not in those exact words, of course), but his focus lays on Thatch’s flying arm. It was heading in _Brok’s_ direction- right for his shoulders-

_Please, don’t touch me._

Brok ducks his head, bending forward and promptly dodges Thatch’s friendly gesture. 

Thatch’s arm is left hanging in the air. Brok doesn’t realize what he had done until he notices Whatley and Thatch’s confused stares. This, to them, might have been the most out-of-character thing they’ve seen him done since his arrival. 

Brok remedies the situation immediately.

“I don’t need an escort to find the mess hall,” he teases. “I can do it myself.”

Thatch holds both his hands up in surrender, playfully, saying, “Alright, alright. You don’t need a babysitter. I understand.”

Whatley mutters under his breath, “Could have fooled me. Getting lost in the slums… honestly…”

Brok doesn’t comment because he knew he wasn’t supposed to hear Whatley’s words. Instead, he leads the other two to the mess hall, regretting that he had driven himself into this situation in an effort to avoid touch. Now he was just navigating himself into a crowded area where he’d have a difficult time. More so than on the deck.  

“Ha…?! Finally decided to join us!” A voice yells out, belonging to a nameless member of the crew. He pointed out Brok’s arrival the moment he entered below deck, and Brok falls victim to multiple stares. 

He takes a deep breath.

 _I’m not Brok Lee. I’m not. I’m Jackson Hellburn. I LOVE people. I love crowded places, social interactions, and any opportunity to sell overly-priced objects to people. This is great. Being here is a wonderful thing_. 

A smaller voice, in the back of his mind, whispers to him. 

 _Liar_.

“Jackson!” Ace, sitting at a table with two others, waves his hand at Brok. “Come join us!”

Brok puts on the biggest salesman smile he can muster as he makes his way to Ace’s table. The two others consist of division leader Izo, and a man Brok had seen under Ace’s command. What was his name again…? 

Brok plops himself next to Ace. He tries his best to avoid eye-contact with Izo in the most natural way possible. 

“You know Izo,” Ace says, waving his hand in Izo’s direction, “but you might not know Lupin. He’s our new brother.”

“Haha! That’s right!” Lupin laughs, rubbing his nose sheepishly.

“Pleasure,” Brok says, politely. 

“We were just talking about some of the crews we’ve encountered in Paradise-” Ace explains, but Lupin is eager to get his word in. 

Lupin interrupts, “They’ve mostly been Marines! They follow us like hawks!”

“Like mice following a cheese trail,” Izo corrects.  

Lupin doesn’t pay Izo any attention. He continues, “But we didn’t get to see many pirate crews. Not any that were strong enough to stand up to Pop’s strength!”

“A natural outcome,” Izo puts in. 

“But man, would I love to see the rumored John Pirates. I bet they’d put up a good fight! Do you think they’re in Paradise?”

Brok notices a change immediately.

Ace’s mood changes drastically. His carefree nature is replaced by something far more grave. His eyes are shadowed over by the rim of his hat, hiding the serious emotion in his eyes.

 _Why would the mention of the John Pirates make Ace’s mood change this much?_ Brok didn’t have to know Ace for long to understand that Ace didn’t usually act like this. Not unless something really bothered him like the haki incident. 

“I heard you met one of the members, Izo! What was he like?” Lupin continues, utterly oblivious to the atmosphere. How could someone be so ignorant?

Izo calmly wraps a hand around his teacup. He brings it up to his lips, taking a sip, before entertaining their newest brother with his next words. 

“He had a tragic appearance. His face was something only a mother could love.”

Brok nearly chokes on air. 

“And his horrible taste of fashion-” Izo insults, “a hat with a bell at the end? Simply tacky!”

 _I mean, I wasn’t going for an attractive look,_ Brok tells himself, _but why do I still feel attacked?_

“But he was a dangerous man,” Izo continues, a frown forming on his face. “He held the information I needed when no one else had a clue. Even I, after weeks of investigation, couldn’t find anything about my objective. He is no average man to be trifled with.”

“Would you ever go to him again? To find out more?” Lupin questions.

Izo is silent for a moment. Everyone waits for his answer in anticipation, even Ace. 

“Perhaps,” Izo admits. He sets his teacup down before going on to say, “It depends. I’m certainly intrigued, but my duty lies here. As long as he doesn’t threaten us or catch pop’s interest, it is unlikely that I will find John Jingle again.”

Little did Izo know-

_John Jingle is sitting right in front of you._

“Ace!” A voice cries out. Thatch. _Again_. Did he always hover over other people? “You aren’t eating! I expected to make several more servings for you!”

Ace stands up from his place, sticks his hands in his pockets, and brushes past Thatch without a word. He leaves a full plate behind him which, apparently, was a shock to everyone around him. 

Brok didn’t even realize that the whole room had been quiet until a wave of chaotic chatter explodes in his ear.

Brok, who didn’t eat much to begin with, had no idea why this was such a big deal.

_What the hell is going on?_

The chatter is terrible as everyone swarms Lupin. Brok even feels a bit of pity for him, but that wasn’t going to make him stay. He was going to leave as soon as possible so that he wouldn’t be the next one in line for questioning.

“What about you?” 

Brok, in the middle of standing up from his seat, glances over his shoulder. 

Thatch still stood there with his arms crossed.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Brok hadn’t gotten a plate of food to begin with. Not that he would consider doing it now. He didn’t want to eat the food that other hands had prepared for him. 

“No. Lost my appetite,” he explains. 

“You haven’t been eating much,” Thatch points out. 

Brok startles at that.

_He’s been watching me?_

“I’m a light eater. You’ll have to forgive me for my small stomach. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your food or anything.”

Brok heads to the exit, dodging Thatch’s more substantial form, believing the conversation to be over.

He’s relieved to feel the pressure of Thatch’s stare on the back of his skull disappear when he heads back to the upper deck. 

 _I need to be more careful,_ Brok chides himself.

An image appears at the forefront of his mind. He remembers the plate of food he had received earlier after having been submerged in the sea… it was in front of his door and… could… could that have been Thatch’s doing?

Brok sighs loudly. 

He’d deal with this later. He didn’t have much energy to waste his time thinking about how others may just be concerned with his well-being. 

He’d just check in with Spandam, give him a jacked-up report, and then go to bed. 

_Sounds like a plan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th! Finally got this chapter out. Special thanks to my partner in crime, Sammie, for going through this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

Fishman Island felt like a distant dream. 

It was hard to believe he had been lurking through the streets occupied by a rare aquatic species, but he had proof that he had visited as evident by the souvenirs that had fallen out of his pockets. Salt shakers.  _ Three _ , counting the ones that had fallen on the floor, and Brok hadn’t a clue as to how they ended up in his pants. Where had he swiped them from? The Mermaid Cafe? The place that had offered him refuge to avoid a gang of human-hating Fishmen? Had he just casually picked them up as Camie escorted him past several tables into the backroom? 

Brok sighs. He leans forward to pluck the salt shakers off the floor and then tosses them atop a growing pile of unrelated items. It was getting taller by the day. It was only a matter of time before Whitebeard himself came barging in Brok’s room, a room he was clearly privileged to be in judging by the sleeping conditions of the rest of the crew, and demanded he jump ship for stealing from the crew. Brok could try telling him that it wasn’t intentional. He’d try to grow out of the habit of taking things since he turned thirteen (which was a year ago), but it proved to be harder than he thought. He had stopped stealing knowingly, of course, but his hands seemed to have a mind of his own. 

Brok turns to his bed. The idea of a nap was too alluring to pass. He’s nearly at the bed’s edge until his whole world shakes violently. Brok is sent forward onto the mattress in mild shock. The reason for the small quake sounded like cannon fire. This left Brok with two guesses. Either a test shot of the Moby Dick’s cannons had gone wrong, or they were being  _ attacked _ . Attacked! The very idea was laughable. Who had the gall to attack Whitebeard? It  _ had  _ to be another Emperor. Everyone knew not to mess with Whitebeard, especially if it was in his own territory. 

“What was that!?” Brok hears, shouting outside his room. 

“All hands on deck!” Another distantly calls from the end of the hallway. 

Brok shoots up from his bed. All hands on deck? Did this include him? He was just a guest. He wasn’t an actual member of the crew. 

_ No way am I just sitting here, though, Brok decides, not when this could directly affect me. Whatever it is.  _

Brok grabs at a brown coat on the top of the growing pile in the corner of his temporary room. He’d no idea where he had stolen it from. All Br knew was that he felt naked without a coat, and it was about time that he had a replacement for the one he had left back at the Archipelago.

Brok sticks his arms through the sleeves, not caring much for the scratchy interior, but it still felt better than nothing. The plain, white, button up-shirt he wore underneath didn’t do much on concealing his person. 

The only shame about the coat was that it wasn’t nearly as long as his traditional trench coat. 

Brok closes the door behind him on his way out. He heads down the hallway, heads up the stairs, and finally climbs out into the crowded deck. Brok immediately rethinks his strategy when he sees how many people are around him, but that’s what Jackson Hellburn was for. All Brok needed to do was channel his salesman’s personality to deal with his discomfort. 

“Are they stupid?” Brok hears from his left. Two crew members, unrecognizable (must be new), were whispering to each other under the lively chatter of their brothers. “They really think they can take on Whitebeard?”

Brok begins to put the puzzle together within his head. Someone had attacked the ship. Someone who wanted to challenge Whitebeard. It couldn’t be an Emperor, either; otherwise, the mood in the atmosphere would be much different. As of now, it was far from sullen. Everyone seemed to be taking this as one big joke.

_ A rookie crew then? _ Brok thinks. 

Brok squeezes his way through multiple men with an apologetic smile _ (I’m Jackson. That’s who I am. Jackson. No one else. No). _ He had to get to the railing to see what exactly was going on. He wasn’t tall enough to look over the multitude of people that had gathered. The only remedy was to make his way to the front of the group. 

Brok finally stops when his stomach hits the railing. His eyes peered out at the endless blue sea only to spot the ship in question. They were waving a pirate flag with a giant white skull with what Brok could only assume to be dreadlocks. His eyes drift from the flag to look at the enemy ship’s crew who were similarly standing at the deck in a show of confidence. At the very front stood a man who held an air of authority about him. Brok uses his observation haki discreetly to get a better gauge on the man’s appearance. 

The man was not on any bounty posters Brok had seen before he hitched a ride on the Moby Dick. He’s pretty sure he’d remember a man with a broken toothy grin wearing an  _ octopus  _ on his head. Brok might not have even thought it was an animal had the mysterious captain lacked the octopus suckers on his ‘dreadlocks.’ Those dreadlocks were definitely tentacles. The beady eyes, blinking across the waters atop the enemy’s head, only strengthened that fact. 

Brok tears his gaze away to look over his shoulder. He spares a glance to see Whitebeard’s reaction. 

Whitebeard showed no emotion. He was calm. It was as if he had many such encounters before. Somehow, this wasn’t new to him. 

**“Attention Whitebeard Pirates!”** A loud voice booms. 

_ That  _ reels back Brok’s attention. His neck nearly snaps in his surprise. 

Brok’s eyes narrow on the object that was held up in the air by the opposing captain. 

_ Is that one of those rare checkered snails? Where’d he get one of those?  _

**“Humble yourselves before the might Jake Swallow! Surrender yourselves and all the alcohol aboard your ship, savvy?”**

_ Jake Swallow? _ Brok swallows nervously. Now, where had he heard that name before? 

The memories hit Brok all at once. 

_ Oh no. _ Brok pales. _ Where’d all his weight go? I don’t remember him looking like that. Did he always have an octopus on the top of his head?  _

Brok remembered him being much rounder.  _ Much rounder. _ He also recognized the man’s crew was filled with addicted alcoholics. There was never a time when they  _ weren’t drinking _ which came hand-in-hand with a bunch of vomiting. It was a nightmare to clean up the ship. 

Regardless, it didn’t matter if they were always drunk. If there was the off-chance that one of them recognized Brok… it’d be a disaster. 

Brok’s hand automatically reaches for the last lollipop in his pant’s pocket. He almost rolls his eyes when he has to push past a lone salt shaker, one that hadn’t fallen out of his pants, but he finally finds the thin lollipop stick he was searching for. His fingers twirl the lollipop in contemplation. Jake Swallow had a weak talent for observation haki. It wasn’t as good as to identify Brok from across the distance between them, but he’d be able to identify him the moment he was close. 

_ Suppressing my haki signature would fix that _ , Brok thinks. 

“Go back to where you came from!” Shouts Lupin.

“Yeah! You’ll regret picking a fight with pops!”

Despite everyone’s warnings, they seemed to be massively enjoying this. 

Jake Swallow’s ship, while the rest of Whitebeard’s crew gave out more warnings amongst their endless laughter, was slowly floating closer. Whitebeard made no notice of this, or maybe he just didn’t care. In fact, he had his  _ eyes closed _ . In fact, unbelievably, Brok could swear he heard faint snoring. 

**“Prepare to be boarded!”**

The sound is much louder now that Jake Swallow was close. 

“Go ahead! We’ve been itching for a fight!” 

Brok plucks the lollipop from his pocket and pops it into his mouth without a second thought. 

The situation escalates quickly as a bunch of drunkards swing across the gap between the two ships. It was almost impressive that Captain Jake had a ship rivaling Moby Dick’s size. 

Brok uses the chaos to grab hold of a rope that got caught on the railing. 

_ The last time I was on Jake Swallow’s crew was because of the information they had on devil fruit.  _

It had been odd that bunch of low-lives with a crippling addiction to alcohol had any information on devil fruits, to begin with, but they were actually  _ devil fruit _ hunters of a sort. They were good at their job despite being led by their need for liquor. It was the devil fruit business that kept them rich enough to feed their obsession. 

_ What if they have something valuable onboard? _

Stupid. Brok knows. 

Yet the call for knowledge compelled him to go out of his way. The potential consequences, the Moby Dick leaving him behind, the Whitebeard Pirates decimating Jake’s ship, couldn’t even compare to Brok’s burning desire to collect what he could. It was in this way that Brok supposed he wasn’t too different from Jake’s men. He was also driven by addiction just as they were. 

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?” Jake slurs, still standing in the same spot as Brok swings himself forward. 

Jake Swallow doesn’t know what hit him- oh- wait. _ He does. _ Brok hits him. He barrels into him and uses his body as a cushion. Jake could only let out a loud  _ ‘oomph! _ ’ as Brok collided him with substantial force. Brok speedily rolls himself off of Jake and shoots up to his feet. He wipes at the stray dirt on his scratchy coat and only pauses to look at the object in his peripheral vision. The octopus that had been on Jake’s head was knocked off in Brok’s collision. 

Jake’s hands fly to his head. They pat around his black hair before realizing that he was missing his signature look. He then cries out, upset, “David Janes! No!”

_ It has a name? _ Brok thinks off-handedly as he uses Jake’s distraction to his advantage. He bolts across the deck, pulls open the hatch for the lower deck and practically leaps down the stairs. His eyes habitually search the room.  _ Quickly _ . Who knew how much time he had? 

Brok spends the next ten minutes raiding the ship like a traditional robber. The only problem was that there seemed to be nothing of value. He even had managed his way through a bolted locker, with bold words which had been stated as  **‘David Janes’ Locker,’** but he hadn’t found anything of worth. All he had spotted was a jar filled with… sand? Dirt? Something of the sort. Then other minuscule trinkets looked like a bunch of  _ junk _ . Not information. Not what Brok desperately craved. 

“Is this seriously it?” Brok questions aloud, dejectedly. 

_ Should have just stayed on the ship! _ He scolds himself. _ Maybe they already sold all that they had to other information brokers. _

Another voice in his mind suggests, _ unlikely. They’re not too smart.  _

_ Right _ , Brok inwardly sighed in his agreement. 

Brok is nearly sulking as he pulls himself back up into the daylight. He drags his feet, similar to that of a pouting child before he grabs hold of a free rope. Jake Swallow was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had already swung across the gap to the Moby Dick, but Brok found himself not really  _ caring _ . The one excitement he had during this whole cruise, excluding the entire _ Queen of Fishman Island being assassinated _ event, was spoiled. 

Brok lands back on the Moby Dick without dragging any attention to himself. He distantly notes, over his untamable brooding, that much of Jake’s crew were being tied up. Whitebeard’s sons had won again. It was no big shock. Jake Swallow hadn’t had a chance of giving Whitebeard a challenge. 

Speaking of Jake Swallow, the man was also tied up with three of his underlings. The octopus was back on his head. _ David Janes, was it? _ Odd. 

“Man. You guys are pretty weak.”

Brok’s gaze lands on Ace. His shoulders were slumped forward as he finished tying up the last of Jake’s crew. 

_ Ace…? Sulking? _

_ Why does that seem so strange? I’m in the same state even if it’s for different reasons.  _

“I was hoping for a challenge,” Ace admits, sourly. 

Ace continues saying something, but his words are sent flying over Brok’s head. Brok was far too focused on Ace’s proximity to Jake’s octopus until his eyes widen in recognition. That was-  _ That was _ -

“Look out!” The words are past Brok’s lips before he can stop.

Ace turns to him, confused, but that’s all it takes. 

The octopus jumps and wraps its tentacles around Ace’s neck. Ace yelps, hopping around in his surprise until he manages to get a good grip on its head. He yanks it off with pure strength before tossing it across the railing and into the ocean. 

“No! David Janes!” Yowls Jake. 

Ace rubs the back of his neck, saying, “He shouldn’t have jumped on me! I was surprised! I’m sure he’ll be fine. He can swim, after all!” 

“No, he can’t you buffoon! He’ll drown!”

“Hah?”

“He’s a devil-fruit user!”

“Oh.”

That’s all Ace manages to get out before he collapses. 

Thatch, who had been standing nearby to watch the whole spectacle, finally interjects, “Ace!? This is a strange time to have one of your sleeping fits!”

Brok is at his side in an instant.

Thatch, thinking Brok has misplaced his worry, assures, “He’ll be fine. He does this all the time.”

“You’re wrong,” Brok speaks back, no hesitation in his voice, “this is something different. That octopus wasn’t normal. Ace was  _ bitten _ .”

Thatch doesn’t seem to catch onto the implication of such a feat until a solid minute passes by. While Brok examines the bite wound on the back of Ace’s neck, Thatch finally says, in revelation, “He’s a logia-user. There’s no way that octopus would be able to bite him. Not without haki.”

“That’s right,” Brok confirms. “His devil-fruit though-”

Brok had seen it before on Jake’s ship when he had infiltrated his crew’s ranks. The octopus was an experiment. An  _ experiment  _ Brok had nearly forgotten. It didn’t have a name at the time. It was nothing important. Not at the time. It had just been another trivial event in his childhood when he could pass himself as a cabin boy. 

“There’s only one like it. It can inject venom into  _ anything, even fire _ . There are no exceptions.”

“You are well-informed.”

Brok doesn’t have to look up to tell that Izo had joined the scene. The comment almost seemed like a jab at something, but Brok ignores it in favor of Ace’s situation.  

“Well, what are we waiting for!? We need to get him to the nurses!” Thatch shouts out. Worry is the only thing in his voice that Brok can identify. 

“ _ No _ ,” Brok stresses, “they won’t be able to cure this.”

“Is that true?” Izo asks, his question directed to Jake. Though his voice is covered with a false sense of calmness, Brok can just  _ sense  _ the concern rolling of Izo in waves. 

Jake nods, fearfully, “He’s right. I don’t know how he knows so much, but he’s right!”

“Then we just watch him die!?” Thatch yells out through gritted teeth. “The nurses are better than nothing at all!” 

Brok turns to look at Thatch. His eyes are unwavering.

“No. I want you to leave it to me.”

This only seemed to upset Thatch more. Thatch storms forward as he lets his emotions take control of him. The only thing that stops him is when Izo’s hand shoots out to grip Thatch’s arm. 

“Wait.”

“I can’t wait-!” Thatch shouts. He continues on a verbal rampage that gathers a broad audience. At one point, Whitebeard joins the conversation, but Brok isn’t listening. Ace. He was dying. Brok didn’t like the sweat that was rolling down Ace’s face. Didn’t like the wheezing he was hearing or Ace’s twitches of pain. 

A giant boot appears in Brok’s view. 

Brok looks up. 

Whitebeard crouches down. He adopts a sullen look as he looks at Ace’s state. 

“Can you save him?”

Brok doesn’t skirt around corners. “I can.” He says it with such conviction that he slightly surprises himself. He was speaking to Whitebeard, eye-to-eye, without cowering in fear. He only hoped his determination would reach Whitebeard. Brok couldn’t stand to see Ace as he was. It reminded him of a different face, in a different time, during his mother’s training. 

_ I couldn’t save her- _

**_But I can save Ace._ **

Brok looks away from Whitebeard and fumbles with all the items in his pockets. When his hands clasp a vial-

Yes!

There was only one like it. 

Brok had intended to use it in the case that his mother inflicted… well… 

Brok shakes the thought away before biting off the cork. 

The vial contained a sloshing white liquid. Brok gently lifts Ace’s head and puts the vial to his lips.

“C’mon…” Brok mutters, encouraging Ace to take every last drop. He’d never tested this on another human being. No. Only himself. 

Brok isn’t prepared for when Ace suddenly starts hacking. The man immediately sits up, turns over, and coughs up a lungful of air. 

In between coughs, Ace manages, “That is  _ foul _ .”

Ace finally glances around. His eyes glide across all of his brothers and eventually lands on his fathers face. It seemed, according to Brok’s speculation, that Ace was having a difficult time grasping the situation. 

“Is everything okay?”

Whitebeard takes in the appearance of his boy. 

Brok does not expect for Whitebeard to look straight at him while saying, “It is now.”

“Ace! You’re okay!” Someone calls out, most likely a pirate from Ace’s division. 

“Yeah? I know?” Ace looks utterly befuddled. 

Izo lets go of Thatch’s arm while subsequently sends Thatch barreling forward into Ace. The movement shocks both of them and Thatch tries to play it off by standing right back up. He composes himself, stating, “You’re too stubborn to die.”

“Yeah, I am- wait, die?” Ace’s brain catches up with his words.

“That’s right, son. You were poisoned.” Whitebeard says. 

Brok has to prevent himself from saying,  _ uhm, no, it wasn’t poison _ . Why bother explaining? 

Whitebeard stands up. He doesn’t have to maneuver through his crew. They all part for him in a respectful movement as he makes his way back into the captain’s cabin. 

Brok doesn’t say anything as finally a bunch of nurses, that were called to the scene, swarm Ace. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Ace cries as the nurses carry him off. 

Brok can only watch as if he were a third-party. How quickly Ace had been cured was unreal. 

_ If it was her… he’d be dead _ . 

_ That venomous woman.  _

_ It’s a good thing I developed that anti-venom. What am I going to do to replace it though? I’m in the middle of the sea, and the ingredients aren’t anywhere near here.  _

“Sorry for not believing you.”

Brok looks at Thatch. 

“You were worried. Who could blame you?”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t apologize,” Thatch says. “You’re a good guy, Jackson.”

“Yes,” Izo inserts himself in the conversation, “though I doubted you in the beginning. It seems you have a good heart.”

Brok doesn’t even know where to begin. When had he ever been complimented  _ genuinely _ ? It seemed outlandish. Other-worldly. 

“Though I think that we’ve met somewhere before…” Izo begins. 

Brok doesn’t understand Izo’s words until it hits him. 

_ The lollipop. I used it when I was in the broker town. He could recognize the signature as it is now. _

What a stupid mistake. 

“Surely, not. I would remember someone like you,” Brok blurts out. 

Izo hums skeptically. 

“Well, I better be going!” Brok claims, “I have things to attend to!”

_ No, you don’t! Stop making lame excuses! _

Brok gets up, takes one step forward, and promptly falls on his face. 

He hears a crack in his pocket, but he doesn’t bother to check what it is. He’s too busy being embarrassed. 

_ Clumsiness! WHY! _

“Are you okay?!” Thatch starts again.

Brok flies back up. 

“Fine! Totally fine!” His laugh is forced. He had no idea why he keeps tripping up. Why was his character breaking? This was terrible! He needed to get out of here!

Before anyone could ask for anything else, Brok flees as quickly as he can. He’s not safe until he barges into his room. It is only when he slams the door shut that he feels a sliver of peace. That, however, is smooshed when his mind replays what had happened only a minute ago. 

“This isn’t working,” Brok moans. He flops onto his bed before attempting to discover the cause for that sound that had happened earlier. 

Brok feels a prick on his finger and quickly withdraws. 

He sits up to look at his poor, injured, finger. It was bleeding. 

“Glass?”

Brok proceeds to carefully remove the glass that was in his pocket, wondering how he could be so lucky as to avoid it piercing his leg before he reaches into the bottom of his pocket. 

His hand comes back up, once again, except this time covered in dirt.

“Dirt!?” He is beyond exasperated. 

He shovels the dirt out desperately. In doing so, he accidentally flings out something that  _ shouldn’t  _ have fit in his pocket. 

It rolls across the floor.

Brok stares.

It was purple. The pattern… a bunch of swirls?

No way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading this chapter! Sammie and I put this together because I am leaving on a eighteen month mission in two days. This is going to be a long hiatus, I know, but we don't plan on leaving this fic alone. Brok is one of the most wonderful OCs Sammie and I ever created. I'm sorry that you guys will have to wait a year and a half, and we wanted to release this chapter before I went. I love you all and I will be eagerly await the day in which I return to update this fic. Take care!


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